THE   SIN-EATER 


The  Sin-Eater 

And  Other  Tales  and  Episodes 

0 

BY 

FIONA   MACLEOD 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 
1907 


COPYRIGHT,   I8g5,  BY 
STONE    AND    KIMBALL 


This  edition  publithtd  in  May,  i<)O7, 
by  Duffield  &  Company 


Stack 
Annex 


TO 

GEORGE   MEREDITH 

IN    GRATITUDE    AND    HOMAGE  :    AND    BECAUSE 
HE    IS    PRINCE    OF    CELTDOM 


\ 


\ 


Contents 
PROLOGUE 

A    *  *~ 

(FROM  IONA) 
i 

THE  SIN-EATER  X5 

THE  NINTH  WAVE  &5 

THE  JUDGMENT  O'    GOD  8l 

II 
THE  HARPING  OF  CRAVETHEEN  97 

III 
TRAGIC  LANDSCAPES 

I.    THE  TEMPEST  J15 

II.     MIST  *33 

III.    SUMMER-SLEEP  *37 

IV 

THE  ANOINTED  MAN  *45 

THE  DAN-NAN-R6N  JS4 

GREEN  BRANCHES  2O4 

V 

THE  DAUGHTER   OF  THE  SUN  *33 

THE  BIRDEEN 

SILK  O'  THE   KINE  *79 


FROM  ION  A. 

To  George  Meredith. 

Here,  where  the  sound  of  the  falling  wave  is  faintly 
to  be  heard,  and  rather  as  in  the  spiral  chamber  of  a 
shell  than  in  the  windy  open,  I  write  these  few  dedica- 
tory words.  I  am  alone  here,  betwixt  sea  and  sky,  for 
there  is  no  other  living  thing  for  the  seeing  on  this 
touldered  height  of  Dun-I  except  a  single  blue  shadow 
that  dreams  slowly  athwart  the  hillside.  The  bleating 
of  lambs  and  ewes,  the  lowing  of  kine,  these  come  up 
from  the  Machar  that  lies  between  the  west  slopes  and 
the  shoreless  sea  to  the  west ;  these  ascend  as  the 
very  smoke  of  sound.  All  round  the  island  there  is  a 
continuous  breathing :  deeper  and  more  prolonged  on 
the  west,  where  the  sea-heart  is;  but  audible  every- 
where. This  moment,  the  seals  on  Sou  are  putting 
their  breasts  against  the  running  tide:  for  I  see  a 
flashing  of  fins  here  and  there  in  patches  at  the  north 
end  of  the  Sound,  and  already  frotn  the  ruddy  granite 
shores  of  the  Ross  there  is  a  congregation  of  seafowl,  — 
gannets  and  guillemots,  skuas  and  herring-gulls,  the 
long-necked  northern-diver,  the  tern,  the  cormorant. 
I 


2  From  lona. 

In  this  sunfiood,  the  waters  of  the  Sound  dance  their 
blue  bodies  and  swirl  their  flashing  white  hair  o'  foam  ; 
and,  as  I  look,  they  seem  to  me  like  children  of  the 
wind  and  the  sunshine,  leaping  and  running  in  these 
sungold  pastures,  with  a  laughter  as  sweet  against  the 
ears  as  the  voices  of  children  at  play. 

The  joy  of  life  vibrates  everywhere.  Yet  the  Weaver 
doth  not  sleep,  but  only  dreams.  He  loves  the  sun- 
drowned  shadows.  They  are  invisible  thus,  but  they 
are  there,  in  the  sunlight  itself.  Sure,  they  may  be 
heard:  as,  an  hour  ago,  when  on  my  way  hither  by 
the  Stairway  of  the  Kings — for  so  sometimes  they  call 
here  the  ancient  stones  of  the  mouldered  princes  of  long 
ago  —  /  heard  a  mother  moaning  because  of  the  son 
that  had  had  to  go  over-sea  and  leave  her  in  her  old 
age ;  and  heard  also  a  child  sobbing,  because  of  the 
sorrow  of  childhood,  —  that  sorrow  so  mysterious,  so 
unfathomable,  so  for  ever  incommunicable. 

To  the  little  one  I  spoke.  But  all  she  would  say, 
looking  up  through  dark,  tear-wet  eyes,  already  filled 
with  the  shadow  of  the  burden  of  woman,  was:  "  Ha 
mee  duvachiis." 

"  Tha  mi  Dubhachas  1  —  /  have  the  gloom." 

Ah,  that  saying!  How  often  I  have  heard  it  in  the 
remote  Isles!  "  The  Gloom."  It  is  not  grief,  nor 
any  common  sorrow,  nor  that  deep  despondency  of 
weariness  that  comes  of  accomplished  things,  too  soon, 
too  literally  fulfilled.  But  it  is  akin  to  each  of  these, 


From  lona.  3 

and  involves  each.  It  is,  rather,  the  unconscious  know- 
ledge of  the  lamentation  of  a  race,  the  unknowing 
surety  of  an  inheritance  of  woe. 

On  the  lips  of  the  children  of  -what  people,  save  in 
the  last  despoiled  sanctuaries  of  the  Gael,  could  be  heard 
these  all  too  significant  sayings :  "  Tha  mi  Dubhachas 
—  /  have  the  gloom  ;  "  "  Ma  tha  sin  an  Dan  —  If  that 
be  ordained,  If  it  be  Destiny  "  ?  Never  shall  I  forget 
the  lisping  of  this  phrase,  —  common  from  The  Seven 
Hunters,  that  aiv  the  extreme  of  the  Hebrid  Isles,  to 
the  Rhinns  of  Islay,  and  from  the  Ord  of  Sutherland 
to  the  Mull  of  Cantyre,  —  never  shall  I  forget  the  lisp- 
ing of  this  phrase  in  the  mouth  of  a  little  birdikin  of 
a  lass,  not  more  than  three  years  old,  —  a  phrase 
caught,  no  doubt,  as  the  jay  catches  the  storm-note  of  the 
missel-thrush,  but  not  the  less  significant,  not  the  less 
piteous :  "  Ma  tha  sin  an  Dan  —  If  it  be  Destiny  !  " 

This  is  so.  And  yet  not  a  stone's  throw  from  where 
I  lie,  half  hidden  beneath  an  overhanging  rock,  is  a 
Pool  of  Healing.  To  this  small,  black-brown  tarn, 
pilgrims  of  every  generation,  for  hundreds  upon  hun- 
dreds of  years,  have  come.  Solitary,  these:  not  only 
because  the  pilgrim  to  the  Fount  of  Eternal  Youth  — 
which,  as  all  Gaeldom  knows,  is  beneath  this  tarn  on 
Dun-I  of  lona  —  must  fare  hither  alone,  and  at  dawn, 
so  as  to  touch  the  healing  water  the  moment  the  first 
sunray  quickens  it,  —  but  solitary,  also,  because  those 
who  go  in  quest  of  this  Fount  of  Youth  are  the  dream- 


4  From  lona. 

ers  and  the  Children  of  Dream,  and  these  are  not  many, 
and  few  come  to  this  lonely  place.  Yet,  an  Isle  of 
Dream,  lona  is,  indeed.  Here  the  last  sun-worship- 
pers bowed  before  the  Rising  of  God  ;  here  Columba  and 
his  hymning  priests  laboured  and  brooded  ;  and  here 
Oran  dreamed  beneath  the  monkish  cowl  that  pagan 
dream  of  his.  Here,  too,  the  eyes  of  Fionn  and  Oisint 
and  of  many  another  of  the  heroic  men  and  women  of 
the  Fianna,  lingered  often;  here  the  Pict  and  the 
Celt  bowed  beneath  the  yoke  of  the  Norse  pirate,  who, 
too,  left  his  dreams,  or  rather  his  strangely  beautiful 
soul-rainbows,  as  a  heritage  to  the  stricken  ;  here,  for 
century  after  century,  the  Gael  has  lived,  suffered, 
joyed,  dreamed  his  impossible,  beautiful  dream ;  as 
here,  now,  he  still  lives,  still  suffers  patiently,  still 
dreams,  and  through  all  and  over  all,  broods  deep 
against  the  mystery  of  things.  He  is  an  elemental, 
among  the  elemental  forces.  They  have  the  voices  of 
wind  and  sea  ;  he  has  these  words  of  the  soul  of  the 
Celtic  race :  "  Tha  mi  Dubhachas  —  Ma  tha  sin 
an  Dan."  //  is  because  the  Fount  of  Youth  that  is 
upon  Dun-I  of  lona  is  not  the  only  Wellspring  of 
Peace,  that  the  Gael  can  front  "  an  Dan  "  as  he  does, 
and  can  endure  his  "  Dubhachas."  Who  knows  where 
its  tributaries  are  ?  They  may  be  in  your  heart,  or  in 
mine,  and  in  a  myriad  others. 

I  would  that  the  birds  of  Angus  Ogue  might,  for 
once,  be  changed,  not  into  the  kisses  of  love,  but  into 


From  lona.  5 

doves  of  peace  ;  that  they  might  fly  forth  into  the  green 
•world,  and  be  nested  there  awhile,  crooning  their 
incommunicable  song  that  would  yet  bring  joy  and 
hope. 

Why,  you  may  think,  do  I -write  these  things?  It 
is  because  I  -wish  to  say  to  you,  and  to  all  -who  may 
read  this  book,  that  in  what  I  have  said  lies  the  Secret 
of  the  Gael.  The  beauty  of  the  World,  the  pathos  of 
Life,  the  gloom,  the  fatalism,  the  spiritual  glamour  — 
it  is  out  of  these,  the  inheritance  of  the  Gael,  that  I 
have  wrought  these  tales. 

Well  I  know  that  they  do  not  give  "  a  rounded  and 
complete  portrait  of  the  Celt."  It  is  more  than  likely 
that  I  could  not  do  so  if  I  tried,  but  I  have  not  tried; 
not  even  to  give  "  a  rounded  and  complete  portrait "  of 
the  Gael,  who  is  to  the  Celtic  race  what  the  Franco-Breton 
is  to  the  French,  a  creature  not  without  blitheness  and 
humour,  laughter-loving,  indolent,  steadfast,  gentle, 
fierce,  but  above  all  attuned  to  elemental  passions,  to  the 
poetry  of  nature,  and  wrought  in  every  nerve  and  fibre 
by  the  gloom  and  mystery  of  his  environment. 

Elsewhere  I  may  give  such  delineation  as  I  can,  and 
is  within  my  own  knowledge,  of  the  manysidedness 
of  the  Celt,  and  even  of  the  insular  Gael.  But  in  this 
book,  as  in  Pharais  and  The  Mountain  Lovers,  I  give 
the  life  of  the  Gael  in  what  is,  to  me,  in  accord  with  my 
cnun  observation  and  experience,  its  most  poignant  char- 
acteristics, —  that  is,  of  course,  in  certain  circumstances, 


6  From  lona. 

in  a  particular  environment.  Almost  needless  to  say, 
I  do  not  present  such  mere  sport  of  Destiny  as  Neil 
Ross,  the  Sin-Eater,  or  Neil  MacCodrum  ("  The  Dan- 
nan-Rbn  ")  as  typical  Gaels,  any  more  than  I  would 
have  Gloom  Achanna,  whose  sombre  personality  colours 
the  three  tales  of  the  fourth  section,  accepted  as  typical 
of  the  perverted  Celt.  They  are  true  in  their  degree  ; 
that  is  all.  But  I  do  aver  that  Alasdair  Achanna, 
the  Anointed  Man;  and  the  fishermen  of  lona  of 
whom  I  speak  ;  and  Ian  Mor  of  the  Hills  ;  and  others 
akin  to  theset  —  are  typical.  This,  obviously,  may  be 
said  without  affirming  that  they  are  "  rounded  mnd 
complete"  types  of  the  Gaelic  Celt.  Of  course  they  are 
nothing  of  the  kind.  This,  also,  may  be  said :  that 
they  are  not  typical  to  the  exclusion  of  other  types. 
Could  Ian  Mor  be  common  anywhere  ?  Are  thtre  so 
many  poet-dreamers  ?  Could  Ethlenn  Stuart  or  Eilidh 
Me  fan  be  met  with  in  each  strath,  on  every  hillside  ? 
Is  the  beautiful  and  one  inevitable  phrase  to  be  found 
on  any  lips  ?  All  men  speak  of  love ;  but  only  you 
have  said  the  supreme  thing  of  the  passion  of  love  ; 
namely,  that  Passion  is  noble  strength  on  fire.  You, 
only  have  said  this.  It  is  individually  characteristic  ; 
it  is  racially  typical ;  and  yet  a  thousand  poets  have 
come  and  gone,  a  million  million  hearts  have  beat  to  this 
chord,  and  the  phrase  has  wailed,  isolate,  for  you.  Is 
it  therefore  not  indicative  ?  Whether  with  phrase,  or 
the  lilt  of  a  free  music,  or  with  man,  —  there  should  be 


From  lona.  7 

no  saying  that  he  or  it  does  not  exist  because  invisible 
through  the  dust  of  the  common  highway. 

It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  "  the  Celtic  Fringe  " 
is  of  divers  colours.  The  Armorican,  the  Cymric,  the 
Gael  of  Ireland,  and  the  Scottish  Gael  are  of  the  same 
stock,  but  are  not  the  same  people.  Even  the  crofter 
of  Donegal  or  the  fisherman  of  Clare  is  no  more  than 
an  older  or  younger  brother  of  the  Hebridean  or  the 
Highlander  ;  certainly  they  are  not  twins,  of  an  indis- 
tinguishable likeness.  Some  of  my  critics,  heedless  of 
the  complex  conditions  which  differentiate  the  Irish 
and  the  Scottish  Celt,  complain  of  the  Celtic  gloom  that 
dusks  the  life  of  the  men  and  women  I  have  tried  to 
draw.  That  may  be  just.  I  wish  merely  to  say  that 
I  have  not  striven  to  depict  the  blither  Irish  Celt.  I 
have  sought  mainly  to  express  something  of  what  I 
have  seen  as  paramount,  something  of  "the  Celtic 
Gloom  "  which,  to  many  Gaels  if  not  to  all,  is  so  dis- 
tinctive in  the  remote  life  of  a  doomed  and  passing 
race.  Possibly,  though  of  course  it  is  unlikely  they 
should  write  save  out  of  fulness  of  knowledge,  those  of 
my  critics  to  whom  I  allude  have  dwelt  for  years 
among  these  distant  isles,  intimate  with  the  speech  and 
mind  and  daily  life  and  veiled,  secretive  inner  nature 
of  the  men  and  women  who  inhabit  them.  I  cannot 
judge,  for  I  do  not  profess  to  know  every  glen  in  the 
Highlands,  or  to  have  set  foot  on  every  one  of  the 
Thousand  Isles. 


8  From  lona. 

A  doomed  and  passing  race.  Yes,  but  not  wholly 
so.  The  Celt  has  at  last  reached  his  horizon.  There 
is  no  shore  beyond.  He  knows  it.  This  has  been  the 
burden  of  his  song  since  Malvina  led  the  blind  Oisln 
to  his  grave  by  the  sea.  "  Even  the  Children  of  Light 
must  go  down  into  darkness."  But  this  apparition  of 
a  passing  race  is  no  more  than  the  fulfilment  of  a 
glorious  resurrection  before  our  very  eyes.  For  the 
genius  of  the  Celtic  race  stands  out  now  with  averted 
torch,  and  the  light  of  it  is  a  glory  before  the  eyes,  and 
the  flame  of  it  is  blown  into  the  hearts  of  the  mightier 
conquering  people.  The  Celt  falls,  but  his  spirit  rises 
in  the  heart  and  the  brain  of  the  Anglo-Celtic  peoples, 
•with  whom  are  the  destinies  of  the  generations  to 
come. 

Well,  this  is  a  far  cry,  from  one  small  voice  on  the 
hill-slope  of  Dun-I  of  lona,  to  the  clarion-call  of  the 
future  !  But,  sure,  even  in  this  Isle  of  Joy,  as  it  seems 
to-day  in  this  dazzle  of  golden  light  and  splashing 
wave,  there  is  all  the  gloom  and  all  the  mystery  which 
lived  in  the  minds  of  the  old  seers  and  bards.  Yonder, 
where  that  thin  spray  quivers  against  the  thyme-set 
cliff,  is  the  Spouting  Cave,  where  to  this  day  the  Mar- 
Tarbh,  dread  creature  of  the  sea,  swims  at  the  full  of 
the  tide.  Beyond,  out  of  sight  behind  these  heights,  is 
Port-na-Churaich,  where,  a  thousand  years  ago,  Co- 
lumba  landed  in  his  coracle.  Here,  eastward,  is  the 


From  lona.  9 

landing-place  for  the  dead  of  old,  brought  hence,  out  of 
Christendom,  for  sacred  burial  in  the  Isle  of  the  Saints. 
All  the  story  of  Albyn  is  here.  lona  is  the  microcosm 
of  Gaeldom. 

Last  night,  about  the  hour  of  the  sun's  going,  I  lay 
upon  the  heights  near  the  Cave,  overlooking  the  Ma- 
char,  —  the  sandy,  rock-frontiered  plain  of  duneland 
on  the  west  side  of  lona,  exposed  to  the  Atlantic.  There 
•was  neither  man  nor  beast,  no  living  thing  to  see,  save 
one  solitary  human  creature.  This  brown,  bent,  aged 
man  toiled  at  kelp-burning.  I  watched  the  smoke  till 
it  merged  into  the  sea-mist  that  came  creeping  swiftly 
out  of  the  north,  and  down  from  Dun-I  eastward.  At 
last  nothing  was  visible.  The  mist  shrouded  every- 
thing. I  could  hear  the  dull,  rhythmic  beat  of  the 
•waves.  That  was  all.  No  sound,  nothing  visible. 

It  was,  or  seemed,  a  long  while  before  a  rapid  thud- 
thud  trampled  the  heavy  air.  Then  I  heard  the  rush, 
the  stamping  and  neighing,  of  some  young  mares,  pas- 
turing there,  as  they  raced  to  and  fro,  bewildered  or 
mayhap  only  in  play.  A  glimpse  I  caught  of  three, 
with  flying  manes  and  tails ;  the  others  were  blurred 
shadows  only.  A  swirl,  and  the  mist  disclosed  them : 
a  swirl,  and  the  mist  enfolded  them  again.  Then, 
silence  once  more. 

All  at  once,  though  not  for  a  long  time  thereafter, 
the  mist  rose  and  drifted  seaward. 

All  was  as  before.     The  Kelp-Burner  still  stood, 


IO  From  lona. 

straking  the  smouldering  seaweed.  Above  him  a  col- 
umn ascended,  bluely  spiral,  dusked  with  gloom  of 
shadow. 

The  Kelp-Burner:  who  is  he  but  the  Gael  of  the 
Isles  ?  Who  but  the  Celt  in  his  sorrow  ?  The  mist 
falls  and  the  mist  rises.  He  is  there  all  the  same, 
behind  it,  part  of  it :  and  the  column  of  smoke  is  the 
incense  out  of  his  longing  heart  that  desires  Heaven 
and  Earth,  and  is  dowered  only  with  poverty  and  pain, 
hunger  and  weariness,  a  little  isle  of  the  seas,  a  great 
hope,  and  the  love  of  love. 

In  that  mist  I  had  dreamed  a  dream.  When  I 
woke,  these  strange,  unfamiliar  words  were  upon  my 
lips:  Am  Dia  beo,  an  Domhan  basacha,'  an  Diom- 
hair  Cinne'-Daonna. 

Am  Dia  beo,  an  Domhan  basacha,  an  Diomhair 
Cinne'-Daonna :  "  The  Living  God,  the  dying  World, 
and  the  mysterious  Race  of  Men." 

I  know  not  what  obscure  and  remote  ancestral  mem- 
ory rose,  there,  to  the  surface  ;  but  I  imagined  for  a 
moment  that  the  Spirit  of  the  race,  and  not  a  solitary 
human  being,  found  utterance  in  this  so  typical  saying. 
It  is  the  sense  of  an  abiding  spiritual  Presence,  .of  a 
waning,  a  perishing  World,  and  of  the  mystery  and 
incommunicable  destiny  of  Man,  which  distinguishes 
the  ethical  life  of  the  Celt. 

"  The  Three  Powers"  I  murmured,  as  I  rose  to  leave 


From  lona.  H 

the  place  where  I  was.  "  These  are  the  three  powers : 
the  Living  God,  the  evanescent  World,  and  Man. 
And  somewhere  in  the  darkness,  —  an  Dan,  Destiny" 
Yes,  Ma  tha  sin  an  Dan  ;  that  is  where  we  come  to 
again.  It  is  Destiny,  then,  that  is  the  Protagonist  in 
the  Celtic  Drama,  —  the  most  moving,  the  most  poig- 
nant of  all  that  make  up  the  too  tragic  Tragi-Comedy 
of  human  life.  And  it  is  Destiny,  that  sombre  Demo- 
gorgon  of  the  Gael,  whose  boding  breath,whose  menace, 
whose  shadow,  glooms  so  much  of  the  remote  life  I 
know,  and  hence  glooms  also  this  book  of  interpreta- 
tions, — for  pages  of  life  must  either  be  interpretative 
or  merely  documentary,  and  these  following  pages  have 
for  the  most  part  been  written  as  by  one  who  repeats, 
with  curious  insistence,  a  haunting,  familiar,  yet  ever 
wild  and  remote  air,  whose  obscure  meanings  he  would 
fain  reiterate,  interpret. 

You,  of  all  living  writers,  can  best  understand  this ; 
for  in  you  the  Celtic  genius  burns  a  pure  flame.  True, 
the  Cymric  blood  that  is  in  you  moves  to  a  more  light- 
some measure  than  tliat  of  the  Scottish  Gael,  and  the 
accidents  of  temperament  and  life  have  combined  to 
make  you  a  writer  for  great  peoples  rather  than  for  a 
people.  But  though  England  appropriate  you  as  her 
son,  and  all  the  Anglo-Celtic  peoples  are  the  heritors  of 
your  genius,  we  claim  your  brain.  Now,  we  are  a 
scattered  band.  The  Breton's  eyes  are  slowly  turning 


12  From  lona. 

from  the  sea,  and  slowly  his  ears  are  forgetting  the  whis- 
per of  the  wind  around  Menhir  and  Dolmen.     The 
Cornishman  has  lost  his  language,  and  there  is  now  no 
bond  between  him  and  his  ancient  kin.     The  Manx- 
man has  ever  been  the  mere  yeoman  of  the  Celtic  chiv- 
\alry;  but  even  his  rude  dialect  perishes  year  by  year. 
I  I  In   Wales,  a  great  tradition  survives ;  in  Ireland,  a 
!  supreme  tradition  fades  through  sunset-hued  horizons 
to  the  edge  o'  dark ;  in  Celtic  Scotland,  a  passionate 
regret,  a  despairing  love  and  longing,  narrows  yearly 
before  a  bastard  utilitarianism   which   is  almost  as 
great  a  curse  to  our  despoiled  land  as   Calvinistic 
theology  has  been  and  is. 

But  with  you,  and  others  not  less  enthusiastic  if  less 
brilliant,  we  need  not  despair.  "  The  Englishman  may 
trample  down  the  heather,"  say  the  shepherds  of  Argyll, 
"  but  he  cannot  trample  down  the  wind." 


; 


THE    SIN-EATER. 

THE    NINTH    WAVE. 

THE    JUDGMENT   O*    GOD. 


The   Sin-Eater. 


SIN. 

Taste  this  bread,  this  substance  ;  tell  me 
Is  it  bread  or  flesh  ? 

[The  SENSES  approach. 
THE  SMELL. 
Its  smell 
Is  the  smell  of  bread, 

SIN. 

Touch,  come.     Why  tremble  ? 
Say  what ' s  this  thou  tou  chest  ? 

THE  TOUCH. 
Bread. 

SIN. 

Sight,  declare  what  thou  discerned 
In  this  object. 

THE  SIGHT. 
Bread  alone. 

CALDKRON  :  Los  Encantos  de  la  Culpa. 

A  WET  wind  out  of  the  south  mazed  and 
moaned  through  the  sea-mist  that  hung  over  the 
Ross.  In  all  the  bays  and  creeks  was  a  contin- 


16  The  Sin-Eater. 

uous  weary  lapping  of  water.  There  was  no 
other  sound  anywhere. 

Thus  was  it  at  daybreak ;  it  was  thus  at  noon  ; 
thus  was  it  now  in  the  darkening  of  the  day. 
A  confused  thrusting  and  falling  of  sounds 
through  the  silence  betokened  the  hour  of  the 
setting.  Curlews  wailed  in  the  mist ;  on  the 
seething  limpet-covered  rocks  the  skuas  and 
terns  screamed,  or  uttered  hoarse  rasping  cries. 
Ever  and  again  the  prolonged  note  of  the  oyster- 
catcher  shrilled  against  the  air,  as  an  echo  flying 
blindly  along  a  blank  wall  of  cliff.  Out  of 
weedy  places,  wherein  the  tide  sobbed  with  long 
gurgling  moans,  came  at  intervals  the  barking 
of  a  seal. 

Inland  by  the  hamlet  of  Contullich,  there  is  a 
reedy  tarn  called  the  Loch-a-chaoruinn.1  By 
the  shores  of  this  mournful  water  a  man  moved. 
It  was  a  slow,  weary  walk  that  of  the  man  Neil 
Ross.  He  had  come  from  Duninch,  thirty 
miles  to  the  eastward,  and  had  not  rested  foot, 
nor  eaten,  nor  had  word  of  man  or  woman  since 
his  going  west  an  hour  after  dawn. 

1  Contullich  i.  e.,  Ceann-nan-tulaich,  "  the  end  of  the 
hillocks."  Loch-a-chaoruinn  means  the  loch  of  the  rowan- 
trees. 


The  Sin-Eater.  17 

At  the  bend'  of  the  loch  nearest  the  clachan 
he  came  upon  an  old  woman  carrying  peat.  To 
his  reiterated  question  as  to  where  he  was,  and  if 
the  tarn  were  Feur-Lochan  above  Fionnaphort, 
that  is,  on  the  strait  of  lona  on  the  west  side  of 
the  Ross  of  Mull,  she  did  not  at  first  make  any 
answer.  The  rain  trickled  down  her  withered 
brown  face,  over  which  the  thin  grey  locks  hung 
limply.  It  was  only  in  the  deep-set  eyes  that  the 
flame  of  life  still  glimmered,  though  that  dimly. 

The  man  had  used  the  English  when  first  he 
spoke,  but  as  though  mechanically.  Supposing 
that  he  had  not  been  understood,  he  repeated  his 
question  in  the  Gaelic. 

After  a  minute's  silence  the  old  woman 
answered  in  the  native  tongue,  but  only  to  put  a 
question  in  return. 

"  I  am  thinking  it  is  a  long  time  since  you  have 
been  in  lona  ?  " 

The  man  stirred  uneasily. 

"  And  why  is  that,  mother  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a 
weak  voice  hoarse  with  damp  and  fatigue ;  "  how 
is  it  you  will  be  knowing  that  I  have  been  in 
lona  at  all  ?  " 

"  Because  I  knew  your  kith  and  kin  there,  Neil 
Ross." 

a 


1 8  The  Sin-Eater. 

"  I  have  not  been  hearing  that  name,  mother, 
for  many  a  long  year.  And  as  for  the  old  face 
o'  you,  it  is  unbeknown  to  me." 

"  I  was  at  the  naming  of  you,  for  all  that. 
Well  do  I  remember  the  day  that  Silis  Macallum 
gave  you  birth  ;  and  I  was  at  the  house  on  the 
croft  of  Ballyrona  when  Murtagh  Ross,  that  was 
your  father,  laughed.  It  was  an  ill  laughing, 
that." 

"  I  am  knowing  it.  The  curse  of  God  on 
him  ! " 

"  'T  is  not  the  first,  nor  the  last,  though 
the  grass  is  on  his  head  three  years  agone 
now." 

"  You  that  know  who  I  am  will  be  knowing 
that  I  have  no  kith  or  kin  now  on  lona?" 

"Ay,  they  are  all  under  grey  stone  or  run- 
ning wave.  Donald  your  brother,  and  Murtagh 
your  next  brother,  and  little  Silis,  and  your 
mother  Silis  herself  and  your  two  brothers  of 
your  father,  Angus  and  Ian  Macallum,  and  your 
father  Murtagh  Ross,  and  his  lawful  childless 
wife  Dionaid,  and  his  sister  Anna,  one  and  all 
they  lie  beneath  the  green  wave  or  in  the  brown 
mould.  It  is  said  there  is  a  curse  upon  all  who 
live  at  Ballyrona.  The  owl  builds  now  in  the 


The  Sin-Eater.  19 

rafters,  and  it  is  the  big  sea-rat  that  runs  across 
the  fireless  hearth." 

"  It  is  there  I  am  going." 

"  The  foolishness  is  on  you,  Neil  Ross." 

"  Now  it  is  that  I  am  knowing  who  you  are. 
It  is  old  Sheen  Macarthur  I  am  speaking  to." 

"  Tha  mise  —  it  is  I." 

"  And  you  will  be  alone  now,  too,  I  am  think- 
ing, Sheen  ?  " 

"  I  am  alone.  God  took  my  three  boys  at  the 
one  fishing  ten  years  ago,  and  before  there  was 
moonrise  in  the  blackness  of  my  heart  my  man 
went.  It  was  after  the  drowning  of  Anndra 
that  my  croft  was  taken  from  me.  Then  I 
crossed  the  Sound,  and  shared  with  my  widow 
sister,  Elsie  McVurie,  till  she  went ;  and  then 
the  two  cows  had  to  go  ;  and  I  had  no  rent ;  and 
was  old." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  the  rain  dribbled 
from  the  sodden  bracken  and  dripping  loneroid. 
Big  tears  rolled  slowly  down  the  deep  lines  on 
the  face  of  Sheen.  Once  there  was  a  sob  in  her 
throat,  but  she  put  her  shaking  hand  to  it,  and 
it  was  still. 

Neil  Ross  shifted  from  foot  to  foot.  The  ooze 
in  that  marshy  place  squelched  with  each  rest- 


2O  The  Sin-Eater. 

less  movement  he  made.  Beyond  them  a  plover 
wheeled  a  blurred  splatch  in  the  mist,  crying  its 
mournful  cry  over  and  over  and  over. 

It  was  a  pitiful  thing  to  hear ;  ah,  bitter  lone- 
liness, bitter  patience  of  poor  old  women.  That 
he  knew  well.  But  he  was  too  weary,  and  his 
heart  was  nigh  full  of  its  own  burthen.  The 
words  could  not  come  to  his  lips.  But  at  last 
he  spoke. 

"  Tha  mo  chridhe  goirt"  he  said  with  tears 
in  his  voice,  as  he  put  his  hand  on  her  bent 
shoulder ;  "  my  heart  is  sore." 

She  put  up  her  old  face  against  his. 

"  'S  tha  e  ruidhinn  mo  chridhe"  she  whis- 
pered,—  "it  is  touching  my  heart  you  are." 

After  that  they  walked  on  slowly  through  the 
dripping  mist,  each  dumb  and  brooding  deep. 

"Where  will  you  be  staying  this  night?" 
asked  Sheen  suddenly,  when  they  had  traversed 
a  wide  boggy  stretch  of  land ;  adding,  as  by  an 
afterthought —  "  ah,  it  is  asking  you  were  if  the 
tarn  there  were  Feur-Lochan.  No  ;  it  is  Loch- 
a-chaoruinn,  and  the  clachan  that  is  near  is 
Contullich." 

"Which  way?" 

"  Yonder ;  to  the  right." 


The  Sin-Eater.  21 

"  And  you  are  not  going  there  ?  " 

"  No.  I  am  going  to  the  steading  of  Andrew 
Blair.  Maybe  you  are  for  knowing  it?  It  is 
called  Le-Baile-na-Chlais-nambuidheag." 1 

"  I  do  not  remember.  But  it  is  remembering 
a  Blair  I  am.  He  was  Adam  the  son  of  Adam 
the  son  of  Robert.  He  and  my  father  did  many 
an  ill  deed  together." 

"  Ay,  to  the  Stones  be  it  said.  Sure,  now, 
there  was  even  till  this  weary  day  no  man 
or  woman  who  had  a  good  word  for  Adam 
Blair." 

"  And  why  that  —  why  till  this  day  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  yet  the  third  hour  since  he  went 
into  the  silence." 

Neil  Ross  uttered  a  sound  like  a  stifled  curse. 
For  a  time  he  trudged  wearily  on. 

"  Then  I  am  too  late,"  he  said  at  last,  but  as 
though  speaking  to  himself.  "  I  had  hoped  to 
see  him  face  to  face  again,  and  curse  him  be- 
tween the  eyes.  It  was  he  who  made  Murtagh 
Ross  break  his  troth  to  my  mother,  and  marry 
that  other  woman,  barren  at  that,  God  be  praised ! 
And  they  say  ill  of  him,  do  they  ?  " 

1  The  farm  in  the  hollow  of  the  yellow  flowers. 


22  The  Sin-Eater. 

"  Ay,  it  is  evil  that  is  upon  him.  This  crime 
and  that,  God  knows  :  and  the  shadow  of  mur- 
der on  his  brow  and  in  his  eyes.  Well,  well, 
'tis  ill  to  be  speaking  of  a  man  in  corpse,  and 
that  near  by.  'T  is  Himself  only  that  knows, 
Neil  Ross." 

"  Maybe  ay,  and  maybe  no.  But  where  is 
it  that  I  can  be  sleeping  this  night,  Sheen 
Macarthur  ?  " 

"  They  will  not  be  taking  a  stranger  at  the 
farm  this  night  of  the  nights,  I  am  thinking. 
There  is  no  place  else,  for  seven  miles  yet,  when 
there  is  the  clachan  before  you  will  be  coming 
to  Fionnaphort.  There  is  the  warm  byre,  Neil 
my  man,  or  if  you  can  bide  by  my  peats  you 
may  rest  and  welcome,  though  there  is  no  bed 
for  you,  and  no  food  either  save  some  of  the 
porridge  that  is  over." 

"  And  that  will  do  well  enough  for  me,  Sheen, 
and  Himself  bless  you  for  it." 

And  so  it  was. 

After  old  Sheen  Macarthur  had  given  the  way- 
farer food  —  poor  food  at  that,  but  welcome  to 
one  nigh  starved,  and  for  the  heartsome  way  it 
was  given,  and  because  of  the  thanks  to  God 


The  Sin-Eater.  23 

that  was  upon  it  before  even  spoon  was  lifted  — 
she  told  him  a  lie.  It  was  the  good  lie  of  tender 
love. 

"  Sure  now,  after  all,  Neil  my  man,"  she  said, 
"  it  is  sleeping  at  the  farm  I  ought  to  be,  for 
Maisie  Macdonald,  the  wise-woman,  will  be  sit- 
ting by  the  corpse,  and  there  will  be  none  to 
keep  her  company.  It  is  there  I  must  be  going, 
and  if  I  am  weary,  there  is  a  good  bed  for  me 
just  beyond  the  dead-board,  which  I  am  not 
minding  at  all.  So  if  it  is  tired  you  are  sitting 
by  the  peats,  lie  down  on  my  bed  there,  and 
have  the  sleep,  and  God  be  with  you." 

With  that  she  went,  and  soundlessly,  for  Neil 
Ross  was  already  asleep,  where  he  sat  on  an 
upturned  claar  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and 
his  flame-lit  face  in  his  hands. 

The  rain  had  ceased;  but  the  mist  still  hung 
over  the  land,  though  in  thin  veils  now,  and 
these  slowly  drifting  seaward.  Sheen  stepped 
wearily  along  the  stony  path  that  led  from  her 
bothy  to  the  farm-house.  She  stood  still  once, 
the  fear  upon  her,  for  she  saw  three  or  four 
blurred  yellow  gleams  moving  beyond  her  east- 
ward along  the  dyke.  She  knew  what  they 
were, — the  corpse-lights  that  on  the  night  of 


24  The  Sin-Eater. 

death  go  between  the  bier  and  the  place  of 
burial.  More  than  once  she  had  seen  them 
before  the  last  hour,  and  by  that  token  had 
known  the  end  to  be  near. 

Good  Catholic  that  she  was,  she  crossed  her- 
self and  took  heart.  Then,  muttering  — 

"  Crois  nan  naoi  aingeal  leant 
'O  mhullach  mo  chinn 
Gu  craican  mo  6Aontt,"  1 

she  went  on  her  way  fearlessly. 

When  she  came  to  the  White  House  she 
entered  by  the  milk-shed  that  was  between  the 
byre  and  the  kitchen.  At  the  end  of  it  was 
a  paved  place,  with  washing-tubs.  At  one  of 
these  stood  a  girl  that  served  in  the  house  ;  an 
ignorant  lass  called  Jessie  McFall,  out  of  Oban. 
She  was  ignorant,  indeed,  not  to  know  that  to 
wash  clothes  with  a  newly  dead  body  near  by  was 
an  ill  thing  to'  do.  Was  it  not  a  matter  for  the 
knowing  that  the  corpse  could  hear,  and  might 
rise  up  in  the  night  and  clothe  itself  in  a  clean 
white  shroud  ? 

l  M  The  cross  of  the  nine  angels  be  about  me, 
From  the  top  of  my  head 
To  the  soles  of  my  feet." 


The  Sin-Eater.  25 

She  was  still  speaking  to  the  lassie  when 
Maisie  Macdonald,  the  deid-watcher,  opened  the 
door  of  the  room  behind  the  kitchen,  to  see  who 
it  was  that  was  come.  The  two  old  women 
nodded  silently.  It  was  not  till  Sheen  was  in 
the  closed  room,  midway  in  which  something 
covered  with  a  sheet  lay  on  a  board,  that  any 
word  was  spoken. 

"Duit  s\th  tnor,  Beann  Macdonald." 

"  And  deep  peace  to  you,  too,  Sheen ;  and  to 
him  that  is  there." 

"  Oc/t,  ocftone,  mise  '»  diughj  't  is  a  dark  hour 
this." 

"  Ay,  it  is  bad.  Will  you  have  been  hearing 
or  seeing  anything  ?  " 

"  Well,  as  for  that,  I  am  thinking  I  saw  lights 
moving  betwixt  here  and  the  green  place  over 
there." 

"  The  corpse-lights  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  is  calling  them  that  they  are." 

"  I  thought  they  would  be  out.  And  I  have 
been  hearing  the  noise  of  the  planks,  —  the 
cracking  of  the  boards,  you  know,  that  will  be 
used  for  the  coffin  to-morrow." 

A  long  silence  followed.  The  old  women 
had  seated  themselves  by  the  corpse,  their 


26  The  Sin-Eater. 

cloaks  over  their  heads.  The  room  was  fire- 
less,  and  was  lit  only  by  a  tall  wax  death-candle, 
kept  against  the  hour  of  the  going. 

At  last  Sheen  began  swaying  slowly  to  and 
fro,  crooning  low  the  while.  "  J  would  not  be 
for  doing  that,  Sheen  Macarthur,"  said  the 
deid-watcher,  in  a  low  voice,  but  meaningly ; 
adding,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  the  mice  have 
all  left  the  house." 

Sheen  sat  upright,  a  look  half  of  terror  half 
of  awe  in  her  eyes. 

"  God  save  the  sinful  soul  that  is  hiding,"  she 
whispered. 

Well  she  knew  what  Maisie  meant.  If  the 
soul  of  the  dead  be  a  lost  soul  it  knows  its 
doom.  The  house  of  death  is  the  house  of 
sanctuary.  But  before  the  dawn  that  follows 
the  death-night  the  soul  must  go  forth,  whoso- 
ever or  whatsoever  wait  for  it  in  the  homeless, 
shelterless  plains  of  air  around  and  beyond.  If 
it  be  well  with  the  soul,  it  need  have  no  fear ; 
if  it  be  not  ill  with  the  soul,  it  may  fare  forth 
with  surety ;  but  if  it  be  ill  with  the  soul,  ill  will 
the  going  be.  Thus  is  it  that  the  spirit  of 
an  evil  man  cannot  stay  and  yet  dare  not  go ; 
and  so  it  strives  to  hide  itself  in  secret  places 


The  Sin-Eater.  27 

anywhere,  in  dark  channels  and  blind  walls. 
And  the  wise  creatures  that  live  near  man 
smell  the  terror,  and  flee.  Maisie  repeated  the 
saying  of  Sheen  ;  then,  after  a  silence,  added :  — 

"  Adam  Blair  will  not  lie  in  his  grave  for  a 
year  and  a  day,  because  of  the  sins  that  are 
upon  him.  And  it  is  knowing  that,  they  are, 
here.  He  will  be  the  Watcher  of  the  Dead  for 
a  year  and  a  day." 

"  Ay,  sure,  there  will  be  dark  prints  in  the 
dawn-dew  over  yonder." 

Once  more  the  old  women  relapsed  into 
silence.  Through  the  night  there  was  a  sigh- 
ing sound.  It  was  not  the  sea,  which  was  too 
far  off  to  be  heard  save  in  a  day  of  storm. 
The  wind  it  was,  that  was  dragging  itself  across 
the  sodden  moors  like  a  wounded  thing,  moan- 
ing and  sighing. 

Out  of  sheer  weariness,  Sheen  twice  rocked 
forward  from  her  stool,  heavy  with  sleep.  At  last 
Maisie  led  her  over  to  the  niche-bed  opposite, 
and  laid  her  down  there,  and  waited  till  the  deep 
furrows  in  the  face  relaxed  somewhat,  and  the 
thin  breath  laboured  slow  across  the  fallen  jaw. 

"  Poor  old  woman,"  she  muttered,  heedless 
of  her  own  grey  hairs  and  greyer  years;  "a 


28  The  Sin-Eater. 

bitter  bad  thing  it  is  to  be  old,  old  and  weary. 
'T  is  the  sorrow  that ;  God  keep  the  pain  of  it." 

As  for  herself  she  did  not  sleep  at  all  that 
night,  but  sat  between  the  living  and  the  dead, 
with  her  plaid  shrouding  her.  Once,  when 
Sheen  gave  a  low,  terrified  scream  in  her  sleep, 
she  rose,  and  in  a  loud  voice  cried  "  Sheeach-adl 
Away  with  you ! "  And  with  that  she  lifted  the 
shroud  from  the  dead  man,  and  took  the  pen- 
nies off  the  eyelids,  and  lifted  each  lid  ;  then, 
staring  into  these  filmed  wells,  muttered  an 
ancient  incantation  that  would  compel  the  soul 
of  Adam  Blair  to  leave  the  spirit  of  Sheen 
alone,  and  return  to  the  cold  corpse  that  was  its 
coffin  till  the  wood  was  ready. 

The  dawn  came  at  last.  Sheen  slept,  and 
Adam  Blair  slept  a  deeper  sleep,  and  Maisie 
stared  out  of  her  wan  weary  eyes  against  the 
red  and  stormy  flares  of  light  that  came  into 
the  sky. 

When,  an  hour  after  sunrise,  Sheen  Mac- 
arthur  reached  her  bothy,  she  found  Neil 
Ross,  heavy  with  slumber,  upon  her  bed.  The 
fire  was  not  out,  though  no  flame  or  spark  was 
visible,  but  she  stooped  and  blew  at  the  heart 


The  Sin-Eater.  29 

of  the  peats  till  the  redness  came,  and  once  it 
came  it  grew.  Having  done  this,  she  kneeled 
and  said  a  rune  of  the  morning,  and  after  that  a 
prayer,  and  then  a  prayer  for  the  poor  man  Neil. 
She  could  pray  no  more  because  of  the  tears. 
She  rose  and  put  the  meal  and  water  into  the 
pot,  for  the  porridge  to  be  ready  against  his 
awaking.  One  of  the  hens  that  was  there  came 
and  pecked  at  her  ragged  skirt.  "  Poor  beastie," 
she  said,  "  sure,  that  will  just  be  the  way  I  am 
pulling  at  the  white  robe  of  the  Mother  o'  God. 
*T  is  a  bit  meal  for  you,  cluckie,  and  for  me  a 
healing  hand  upon  my  tears  —  O,  och,  ochone, 
the  tears,  the  tears !  " 

It  was  not  till  the  third  hour  after  sunrise  of 
that  bleak  day  in  the  winter  of  the  winters  that 
Neil  Ross  stirred  and  arose.  He  ate  in  silence. 
Once  he  said  that  he  smelt  the  snow  coming  out 
of  the  north.  Sheen  said  no  word  at  all. 

After  the  porridge,  he  took  his  pipe,  but  there 
was  no  tobacco.  All  that  Sheen  had  was  the 
pipeful  she  kept  against  the  gloom  of  the  Sab- 
bath. It  was  her  one  solace  in  the  long  weary 
week.  She  gave  him  this,  and  held  a  burning 
peat  to  his  mouth,  and  hungered  over  the  thin, 
rank  smoke  that  curled  upward. 


30  The  Sin-Eater. 

It  was  within  half  an  hour  of  noon  that,  after 
an  absence,  she  returned. 

"  Not  between  you  and  me,  Neil  Ross,"  she 
began  abruptly,  "  but  just  for  the  asking,  and 
what  is  beyond.  Is  it  any  money  you  are 
having  upon  you  ?  " 

"No." 

"Nothing?" 

«  Nothing." 

"  Then  how  will  you  be  getting  across  to 
lona?  It  is  seven  long  miles  to  Fionnaphort, 
and  bitter  cold  at  that,  and  you  will  be  need- 
ing food,  and  then  the  ferry,  the  ferry  across 
the  Sound,  you  know." 

"Ay,  I  know." 

"  What  would  you  do  for  a  silver  piece,  Neil 
my  man  ?  " 

"  You  have  none  to  give  me,  Sheen  Mac- 
arthur,  and  if  you  had,  it  would  not  be  taking  it 
I  would." 

"Would  you  kiss  a  dead  man  for  a  crown- 
piece,  —  a  crown-piece  of  five  good  shillings  ?  " 

Neil  Ross  stared.    Then  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  It  is  Adam  Blair  you  are  meaning,  woman  ! 
God  curse  him  in  death  now  that  he  is  no 
longer  in  life!" 


The  Sin-Eater.  31 

Then,  shaking  and  trembling,  he  sat  down 
again,  and  brooded  against  the  dull  red  glow  of 
the  peats. 

But,  when  he  rose,  in  the  last  quarter  before 
noon,  his  face  was  white. 

"  The  dead  are  dead,  Sheen  Macarthur. 
They  can  know  or  do  nothing.  I  will  do  it. 
It  is  willed.  Yes,  I  am  going  up  to  the  house 
there.  And  now  I  am  going  from  here.  God 
Himself  has  my  thanks  to  you,  and  my  bless- 
ing too.  They  will  come  back  to  you.  It  is 
not  forgetting  you  I  will  be.  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  Neil,  son  of  the  woman  that  was 
my  friend.  A  south  wind  to  you  !  Go  up  by 
the  farm.  In  the  front  of  the  house  you  will 
see  what  you  will  be  seeing.  Maisie  Mac- 
donald  will  be  there.  She  will  tell  you  what 's 
for  the  telling.  There  is  no  harm  in  it,  sure ; 
sure,  the  dead  are  dead.  It  is  praying  for  you 
I  will  be,  Neil  Ross.  Peace  to  you  ! " 

"  And  to  you,  Sheen." 

And  with  that  the  man  went. 

When  Neil  Ross  reached  the  byres  of  the 
farm  in  the  wide  hollow,  he  saw  two  figures 
standing  as  though  awaiting  him,  but  each 


32  The  Sin-Eater. 

separate  and  unseen  of  the  other.  In  front  of 
the  house  was  a  man  he  knew  to  be  Andrew 
Blair ;  behind  the  milk-  shed  was  a  woman  he 
guessed  to  be  Maisie  Macdonald. 

It  was  the  woman  he  came  upon  first. 

"Are  you  the  friend  of  Sheen  Macarthur?" 
she  asked  in  a  whisper,  as  she  beckoned  him  to 
the  doorway. 

"  I  am." 

"  I  am  knowing  no  names,  or  anything.  And 
no  one  here  will  know  you,  I  am  thinking.  So 
do  the  thing,  and  begone." 

"  There  is  no  harm  to  it  ?  " 

"  None." 

4<  It  will  be  a  thing  often  done,  is  it  not  ?  n 

"Ay,  sure." 

"  And  the  evil  does  not  abide  ?  " 

"  No.  The  —  the  —  person  —  the  person 
takes  them  away,  and  —  " 

"Them?" 

"For  sure,  man!  Them  —  the  sins  of  the 
corpse.  He  takes  them  away,  and  are  you  for 
thinking  God  would  let  the  innocent  suffer  for 
the  guilty  ?  No  —  the  person  —  the  Sin-Eater, 
you  know — takes  them  away  on  himself,  and 
one  by  one  the  air  of  heaven  washes  them  away 


The  Sin-Eater.  33 

till  he,  the  Sin-Eater,  is  clean  and  whole  as 
before." 

"  But  if  it  is  a  man  you  hate  —  if  it  is  a  corpse 
that  is  the  corpse  of  one  who  has  been  a  curse 
and  a  foe  —  if  —  " 

"Sst!  Be  still  now  with  your  foolishness. 
It  is  only  an  idle  saying,  I  am  thinking.  Do  it, 
and  take  the  money,  and  go.  It  will  be  hell 
enough  for  Adam  Blair,  miser  as  he  was,  if  he  is 
for  knowing  that  five  good  shillings  of  his  money 
are  to  go  to  a  passing  tramp,  because  of  an  old 
ancient  silly  tale." 

Neil  Ross  laughed  low  at  that.  It  was  for 
pleasure  to  him. 

"  Hush  wi'  ye !  Andrew  Blair  is  waiting 
round  there.  Say  that  I  have  sent  you  round, 
as  I  have  neither  bite  nor  bit  to  give." 

Turning  on  his  heel  Neil  walked  slowly 
round  to  the  front  of  the  house.  A  tall  man 
was  there,  gaunt  and  brown,  with  hairless  face 
and  lank  brown  hair,  but  with  eyes  cold  and 
grey  as  the  sea. 

"  Good  day  to  you  an'  good  faring.  Will 
you  be  passing  this  way  to  anywhere  ?  " 

"  Health  to  you.  I  am  a  stranger  here.  It 
is  on  my  way  to  lona  I  am.  But  I  have  the 

3 


34  The  Sin-Eater. 

hunger  upon  me.  There  is  not  a  brown  bit  in 
my  pocket.  I  .asked  at  the  door  there,  near  the 
byres.  The  woman  told  me  she  could  give  me 
nothing  —  not  a  penny  even,  worse  luck,  —  nor, 
for  that,  a  drink  of  warm  milk.  'Tis  a  sore 
land  this." 

"You  have  the  Gaelic  of  the  Isles.  Is  it 
from  lona  you  are  ?  " 

"  It  is  from  the  Isles  of  the  West  I  come." 

"  From  Tiree  ?  —  from  Coll  ?  " 

"  No." 

"From  the  Long  Island  —  or  from  Uist  — 
or  maybe  from  Benbecula  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Oh  well,  sure  it  is  no  matter  to  me.  But 
may  I  be  asking  your  name  ?  " 

"  Macallum." 

"Do  you  know  there  is  a  death  here,  Macal- 
lum?" 

"  If  I  did  n't,  I  would  know  it  now,  because 
of  what  lies  yonder." 

Mechanically,  Andrew  Blair  looked  round. 
As  he  knew,  a  rough  bier  was  there,  that  was 
made  of  a  dead-board  laid  upon  three  milk- 
ing-stools.  Beside  it  was  a  claar,  a  small  tub 
to  hold  potatoes.  On  the  bier  was  a  corpse, 


The  Sin-Eater.  35 

covered  with  a  canvas  sheeting  that  looked  like 
i  sail. 

"He  was  a  worthy  man,  my  father,"  began 
the  son  of  the  dead  man,  slowly;  "but  he  had 
his  faults,  like  all  of  us.  I  might  even  be  saying 
that  he  had  his  sins,  to  the  Stones  be  it  said. 
You  will  be  knowing,  Macallum,  what  is  thought 
among  the  folk  —  that  a  stranger,  passing  by, 
may  take  away  the  sins  of  the  dead,  and  that  too 
without  any  hurt  whatever — any  hurt  whatever." 

"  Ay,  sure." 

"  And  you  will  be  knowing  what  is  done  ?  " 

"  Ay." 

"  With  the  Bread  —and  the  Water—  " 

"  Ay." 

"  It  is  a  small  thing  to  do.  It  is  a  Christian 
thing.  I  would  be  doing  it  myself,  and  that 
gladly ;  but  the  —  the  —  passer-by  who  —  " 

"  It  is  talking  of  the  Sin-Eater  you  are?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  for  sure.  The  Sin-Eater  as  he  is 
railed  —  and  a  good  Christian  act  it  is,  for  all 
that  the  ministers  and  the  priests  make  a  frown- 
ing at  it  —  the  Sin-Eater  must  be  a  stranger. 
He  must  be  a  stranger,  and  should  know  noth- 
ing of  the  dead  man,  above  all  bear  him  no 
jjrudge." 


36  The  Sin-Eater. 

At  that,  Neil  Ross's  eyes  lightened  for  a 
moment. 

"  And  why  that  ?  " 

"  Who  knows  ?  I  have  heard  this,  and  I  have 
heard  that.  If  the  Sin-Eater  was  hating  the 
dead  man  he  could  take  the  sins  and  fling  them 
into  the  sea  and  they  would  be  changed  into 
demons  of  the  air  that  would  harry  the  flying 
soul  till  Judgment-Day." 

"  And  how  would  that  thing  be  done  ?" 
The  man  spake  with  flashing  eyes  and  parted 
lips,  the  breath   coming  swift.     Andrew  Blair 
looked  at  him  suspiciously,  and  hesitated,  be- 
fore in  a  cold  voice  he  spoke  again. 

"  That  is  all  folly,  I  am  thinking,  Macallum. 
Maybe  it  is  all  folly,  the  whole  of  it.  But  see 
here,  I  have  no  time  to  be  talking  with  you. 
If  you  will  take  the  bread  and  the  water  you 
shall  have  a  good  meal  if  you  want  it,  and  — 
and  —  yes,  look  you,  my  man,  I  will  be  giving 
you  a  shilling  too,  for  luck." 

"  I  will  have  no  meal  in  this  house,  Anndra 
Mhic  Adam  ;  nor  will  I  do  this  thing  unless  you 
will  be  giving  me  two  silver  half-crowns.  Tha\ 
is  the  sum  I  must  have,  or  no  other." 

"  Two  half-crowns !  Why,  man,  for  one  half- 
crown  —  " 


The  Sin-Eater.  37 

"  Then  be  eating  the  sins  o'  your  father  your- 
self, Andrew  Blair !     It  is  going  I  am." 

"  Stop,  man !  Stop,  Macallum.  See  here :  I 
will  be  giving  you  what  you  ask." 

"  So  be  it.     Is  the  —  are  you  ready  ?  " 

"  Ay,  come  this  way." 

With  that  the  two  men  turned,  and  moved 
slowly  towards  the  bier. 

In  the  doorway  of  the  house  stood  a  man  and 
two  women ;  farther  in,  a  woman ;  and  at  the 
vindow  to  the  left  the  serving-wench,  Jessie 
McFall,  and  two  men  of  the  farm.  Of  those 
in  the  doorway,  the  man  was  Peter,  the  half- 
witted youngest  brother  of  Andrew  Blair;  the 
taller  and  older  woman  was  Catreen,  the  widow 
of  Adam  the  second  brother;  and  the  thin 
slight  woman,  with  staring  eyes  and  drooping 
mouth,  was  Muireall,  the  wife  of  Andrew. 
The  old  woman,  behind  these,  was  Maisie 
Macdonald. 

Andrew  Blair  stooped  and  took  a  saucer  out 
of  the  claar.  This  he  put  upon  the  covered 
breast  of  the  corpse.  He  stooped  again,  and 
brought  forth  a  thick  square  piece  of  new-made 
bread.  That  also  he  placed  upon  the  breast  of 
the  corpse.  Then  he  stooped  again,  and  with 


38  The  Sin-Eater. 

that  he  emptied  a  spoonful  of  salt  alongside  the 
bread. 

"I  must  see  the  corpse,"  said  Neil  Ross, 
simply. 

"  It  is  not  needful,  Macallum." 

"I  must  be  seeing  the  corpse,  I  tell  you, — 
and  for  that,  too,  the  bread  and  the  water  should 
be  on  the  naked  breast." 

"No,  no,  man,  it  —  " 

But  here  a  voice,  that  of  Maisie  the  wise- 
woman,  came  upon  them,  saying  that  the  man 
was  right,  and  that  the  eating  of  the  sins  should 
be  done  in  that  way  and  no  other. 

With  an  ill  grace  the  son  of  the  dead  man 
drew  back  the  sheeting.  Beneath  it  the  corpse 
was  in  a  clean  white  shirt,  a  death-gown  long 
ago  prepared,  that  covered  him  from  his  neck  to 
his  feet,  and  left  only  the  dusky,  yellowish  face 
exposed. 

While  Andrew  Blair  unfastened  the  shirt, 
and  placed  the  saucer  and  the  bread  and  the 
salt  on  the  breast,  the  man  beside  him  stood 
staring  fixedly  on  the  frozen  features  of  the 
corpse.  The  new  laird  had  to  speak  to  him 
twice  before  he  heard. 

"  I  am  ready.    And  you,  now  ?    What  is  it 


The  Sin-Eater.  39 

you  are  muttering  over  against  the  lips  of  the 
dead?" 

"  It  is  giving  him  a  message  I  am.  There  is 
no  harm  in  that,  sure  ?  " 

"  Keep  to  your  own  folk,  Macallum.  You 
are  from  the  West  you  say,  and  we  are  from 
the  North.  There  can  be  no  messages  between 
you  and  a  Blair  of  Strathmore,  no  messages  for 
you  to  be  giving." 

"  He  that  lies  here  knows  well  the  man  to 
whom  I  am  sending  a  message  —  "  and  at  this 
response  Andrew  Blair  scowled  darkly.  He 
would  fain  have  sent  the  man  about  his  busi- 
ness, but  he  feared  he  might  get  no  other. 

"  It  is  thinking  I  am  that  you  are  not  a  Ma- 
callum at  all.  I  know  all  of  that  name  in  Mull, 
lona,  Skye,  and  the  near  isles.  What  will  the 
name  of  your  naming  be,  and  of  your  father, 
and  of  his  place?" 

Whether  he  really  wanted  an  answer,  or 
whether  he  sought  only  to  divert  the  man  from 
his  procrastination,  his  question  had  a  satis- 
factory result. 

"  Well,  now,  it's  ready  I  am,  Anndra  Mhic 
Adam." 

With  that,  Andrew  Blair  stooped  once  more, 


4O  The  Sin-Eater. 

and  from  the  c laar  brought  a  small  jug  of  water. 
From  this  he  filled  the  saucer. 

"  You  know  what  to  say  and  what  to  do, 
Macallum." 

There  was  not  one  there  who  did  not  have  a 
shortened  breath  because  of  the  mystery  that 
was  now  before  them,  and  the  fearfulness  of  it. 
Neil  Ross  drew  himself  up,  erect,  stiff,  with 
white,  drawn  face.  All  who  waited,  save  An- 
drew Blair,  thought  that  the  moving  of  his  lips 
was  because  of  the  prayer  that  was  slipping 
upon  them,  like  the  last  lapsing  of  the  ebb-tide. 
But  Blair  was  watching  him  closely,  and  knew 
that  it  was  no  prayer  which  stole  out  against  the 
blank  air  that  was  around  the  dead. 

Slowly  Neil  Ross  extended  his  right  arm. 
He  took  a  pinch  of  the  salt  and  put  it  in  the 
saucer,  then  took  another  pinch  and  sprinkled 
it  upon  the  bread.  His  hand  shook  for  a  mo- 
ment as  he  touched  the  saucer.  But  there  was 
no  shaking  as  he  raised  it  towards  his  lips,  or 
when  he  held  it  before  him  when  he  spoke. 

"With  this  water  that  has  salt  in  it,  and  has 
lain  on  thy  corpse,  O  Adam  Mhic  Anndra  Mhic 
Adam  M6r,  I  drink  away  all  the  evil  that  is 
upon  thee  "  —  there  was  throbbing  silence  while 


The  Sin-Eater.  41 

he  paused  —  "and  may  it  be  upon  me,  and  not 
upon  thee,  if  with  this  water  it  cannot  flow 
away." 

Thereupon  he  raised  the  saucer  and  passed 
it  thrice  round  the  head  of  the  corpse  sunways, 
and  having  done  this,  lifted  it  to  his  lips 
and  drank  as  much  as  his  mouth  would  hold. 
Thereafter  he  poured  the  remnant  over  his  left 
hand,  and  let  it  trickle  to  the  ground.  Then 
he  took  the  piece  of  bread.  Thrice,  too,  he 
passed  it  round  the  head  of  the  corpse  sunways. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  the  man  by  his  side, 
then  at  the  others  who  watched  him  with  beat- 
ing hearts. 

With  a  loud  clear  voice  he  took  the  sins. 

"  Thoir  dhomh  do  ciontachd,  O  Adam  Mhic 
Anndra  Mhic  Adam  Mor!  Give  me  thy  sins 
to  take  away  from  thee !  Lo,  now,  as  I  stand 
here,  I  break  this  bread  that  has  lain  on  thee  in 
corpse,  and  I  am  eating  it,  I  am,  and  in  that  eat- 
ing I  take  upon  me  the  sins  of  thee,  O  man  that 
was  alive  and  is  now  white  with  the  stillness  ! " 

Thereupon  Neil  Ross  broke  the  bread  and 
ate  of  it,  and  took  upon  himself  the  sins  of  Adam 
Blair  that  was  dead.  It  was  a  bitter  swallowing, 
that.  The  remainder  of  the  bread  he  crumbled 


42  The  Sin-Eater. 

in  his  hand,  and  threw  it  on  the  ground,  and 
trod  upon  it.  Andrew  Blair  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief.  His  cold  eyes  lightened  with  malice. 

"  Be  off  with  you,  now,  Macallum.  We  are 
wanting  no  tramps  at  the  farm  here,  and  per- 
haps you  had  better  not  be  trying  to  get  work 
this  side  lona,  for  it  is  known  as  the  Sin-Eater 
you  will  be,  and  that  won't  be  for  the  help- 
ing, I  am  thinking !  There :  there  are  the  two 
half-crowns  for  you  —  and  may  they  bring  you 
no  harm,  you  that  are  Scapegoat  now !  " 

The  Sin-Eater  turned  at  that,  and  stared  like 
a  hill-bull.  Scapegoat!  Ay,  that's  what  he 
was.  Sin-Eater,  scapegoat !  Was  he  not,  too, 
another  Judas,  to  have  sold  for  silver  that  which 
was  not  for  the  selling  ?  No,  no,  for  sure  Maisie 
Macdonald  could  tell  him  the  rune  that  would 
serve  for  the  easing  of  this  burden.  He  would 
soon  be  quit  of  it. 

Slowly  he  took  the  money,  turned  it  over, 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"  I  am  going,  Andrew  Blair,"  he  said  quietly ; 
"  I  am  going,  now.  I  will  not  say  to  him  that 
is  there  in  the  silence,  A  chuid  do  Pharos  da  / 
—  nor  will  I  say  to  you,  Gu'n  gleidheadh  Dia 
thu,  — nor  will  I  say  to  this  dwelling  that  is  the 


The  Sin-Eater.  43 

home  of  thee  and  thine,  Gu'n  beannaicheadh 
Dia  an  tigh  /  " 1 

Here  there  was  a  pause.  All  listened.  An- 
drew Blair  shifted  uneasily,  the  furtive  eyes  of 
him  going  this  way  and  that  like  a  ferret  in  the 
grass. 

"But,  Andrew  Blair,  I  will  say  this;  when 
you  fare  abroad,  Droch  caoidh  ort.'  and  when 
you  go  upon  the  water,  Gaoth gun  direadh  ort! 
Ay,  ay,  Anndra  Mhic  Adam,  Dia  ad  aghaidh 
's  ad  aodann  —  agus  has  dunach  ort !  Dhonas 
's  dholas  ort,  agus  leat-sa  /  "  8 

The  bitterness  of  these  words  was  like  snow 
in  June  upon  all  there.  They  stood  amazed. 
None  spoke.  No  one  moved. 

Neil  Ross  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  with  a 
bright  light  in  his  eyes  walked  away  from  the  dead 

1  (i)  A  chuid  do  Pharos  da .'    "  His  share  of  heaven  be 
his."     (2)  Gu'n  gleidheadh  Dia  thu  .'  "  May  God  pre- 
serve you."      (3)    Gu'n    beannaicheadh  Dia  an  tigh! 
"  God's  blessing  on  this  house." 

2  (i)  Droch  caoidh  ort!  "  May  a  fatal  accident  happen 
to  you"  (lit. "  Bad  moan  on  you").   (2)  Gaoth  gun  direadh 
ort !  "  May  you  drift  to  your  drowning  "  (lit."  Wind  without 
direction   on  you  ").     (3)  Dia  ad  aghaidh,  etc .'    "  God 
against  thee  and  in  thy  face  —  and  may  a  death  of  woe  be 
yours.    Evil  and  sorrow  to  thee  and  thine  !  " 


44  The  Sin-Eater. 

and  the  living.  He  went  by  the  byres,  whence  he 
had  come.  Andrew  Blair  remained  where  he 
was,  now  glooming  at  the  corpse,  now  biting  his 
nails  and  staring  at  the  damp  sods  at  his  feet. 

When  Neil  reached  the  end  of  the  milk-shed 
he  saw  Maisie  Macdonald  there,  waiting. 

"  These  were  ill  sayings  of  yours,  Neil  Ross," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice,  so  that  she  might  not  be 
overheard  from  the  house. 

"  So,  it  is  knowing  me  you  are." 

"  Sheen  Macarthur  told  me." 

"  I  have  good  cause." 

"  That  is  a  true  word.     I  know  it." 

"Tell  me  this  thing.  What  is  the  rune  that 
is  said  for  the  throwing  into  the  sea  of  the  sins 
of  the  dead?  See  here,  Maisie  Macdonald. 
There  is  no  money  of  that  man  that  I  would 
carry  a  mile  with  me.  Here  it  is.  It  is  yours, 
if  you  will  tell  me  that  rune." 

Maisie  took  the  money  hesitatingly.  Then, 
stooping,  she  said  slowly  the  few  lines  of  the 
old,  old  rune. 

"  Will  you  be  remembering  that  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  forgetting  it  I  will  be,  Maisie." 

"  Wait  a  moment.  There  is  some  warm 
milk  here." 


The  Sin-Eater.  45 

With  that  she  went,  and  then,  from  within, 
beckoned  to  him  to  enter. 

"  There  is  no  one  here,  Neil  Ross.  Drink 
the  milk." 

He  drank :  and  while  he  did  so  she  drew  a 
leather  pouch  from  some  hidden  place  in  her 
dress. 

"  And  now  I  have  this  to  give  you." 

She  counted  out  ten  pennies  and  two  farth- 
ings. 

"  It  is  all  the  coppers  I  have.  You  are  wel- 
come to  them.  Take  them,  friend  of  my  friend. 
They  will  give  you  the  food  you  need,  and  the 
ferry  across  the  Sound." 

"  I  will  do  that,  Maisie  Macdonald,  and 
thanks  to  you.  It  is  not  forgetting  it  I  will  be, 
nor  you,  good  woman.  And  now,  tell  me :  Is 
it  safe  that  I  am  ?  He  called  me  a  'scape- 
goat,' he,  Andrew  Blair!  Can  evil  touch  me 
between  this  and  the  sea?" 

"  You  must  go  to  the  place  where  the  evil 
was  done  to  you  and  yours ;  and  that,  I  know, 
is  on  the  west  side  of  lona.  Go,  and  God  pre- 
serve you.  But  here,  too,  is  a  sian  that  will  be 
for  the  safety." 

Thereupon  with   swift   mutterings   she   said 


46  The  Sin-Eater. 

this  charm :  an  old,  familiar  sian  against  Sud- 
den Harm :  — 

Sian  a  chuir  Moire  air  Mac  art, 

Sian  ro*  marbhadh,  sian  ro'  lot  art, 

Sian  eadar  a'  chlioch  's  a'  ghlun, 

Sian  nan  Tri  ann  an  aon  art, 

O  mhullach  do  chinn  gu  bonn  do  choii  art: 

Sian  seachd  eadar  a  h-aon  ort, 

Sian  seachd  eadar  a  dha  art, 

Sian  seachd  eadar  a  tri  art, 

Sian  seachd  eadar  a  ceithir  art, 

Sian  seachd  eadar  a  coig  art, 

Sian  seachd  eadar  a  sia  art, 

Sian  seachd  paidir  nan  seach  paidir  dol  deiseil  n 
diugh  narach  art,  ga  do  ghleidheadh  bho  bheud  's  bho 
mhi-thafadh  ! 

Scarcely  had  she  finished  before  she  heard 
heavy  steps  approaching. 

"  Away  with  you,"  she  whispered ;  repeating 
in  a  loud  angry  tone,  "  Away  with  you !  Sea- 
chad  !  Seachad!  " 

And  with  that  Neil  Ross  slipped  from  the 
milk-shed  and  crossed  the  yard,  and  was  be- 
hind the  byres,  before  Andrew  Blair,  with  sullen 
mien  and  swift  wild  eyes,  strode  from  the  house. 

It  was  with  a  grim  smile  on  his  face  that  Neil 
tramped  down  the  wet  heather  till  he  reached 


The  Sin-Eater.  47 

the  high  road,  and  fared  thence  as  through  a 
marsh  because  of  the  rains  there  had  been. 

For  the  first  mile  he  thought  of  the  angry 
mind  of  the  dead  man,  bitter  at  paying  of  the 
silver.  For  the  second  mile  he  thought  of  the 
evil  that  had  been  wrought  for  him  and  his. 
For  the  third  mile  he  pondered  over  all  that  he 
had  heard,  and  done,  and  taken  upon  him  that 
day. 

Then  he  sat  down  upon  a  broken  granite-heap 
by  the  way,  and  brooded  deep,  till  one  hour 
went,  and  then  another,  and  the  third  was  upon 
him. 

A  man  driving  two  calves  came  towards  him 
out  of  the  west.  He  did  not  hear  or  see.  The 
man  stopped,  spoke  again.  Neil  gave  no  an- 
swer. The  drover  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
hesitated,  and  walked  slowly  on,  often  looking 
back. 

An  hour  later  a  shepherd  came  by  the  way  he 
himself  had  tramped.  He  was  a  tall,  gaunt 
man  with  a  squint.  The  small  pale-blue  eyes 
glittered  out  of  a  mass  of  red  hair  that  almost 
covered  his  face.  He  stood  still  opposite  Neil, 
and  leaned  on  his  cromak. 

"  Latha  math  leaf"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  wish 
you  good  day." 


48  The  Sin-Eater. 

Neil  glanced  at  him,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  What  is  your  name,  for  I  seem  to  know 
you?" 

But  Neil  had  already  forgotten  him.  The 
shepherd  took  out  his  snuff-mull,  helped  himself, 
and  handed  the  mull  to  the  lonely  wayfarer. 
Neil  mechanically  helped  himself. 

"  Am  bheil  thu  'dol  do  Fhionphort  f  "  cried 
the  shepherd  again,  "  are  you  going  to  Fion- 
naphort  ?  " 

"  Tha  mise  'dot  a  dK1  I-challum-chitter  Neil 
answered  in  a  low,  weary  voice,  and  as  a  man 
adream,  "  I  am  on  my  way  to  lona." 

"I  am  thinking  I  know  now  who  you  are. 
You  are  the  man  Macallum." 

Neil  looked,  but  did  not  speak.  His  eyes 
dreamed  against  what  the  other  could  not  see 
or  know.  The  shepherd  called  angrily  to  his 
dogs  to  keep  the  sheep  from  straying;  then, 
with  a  resentful  air,  turned  to  his  victim. 

"  You  are  a  silent  man  for  sure,  you  are.  I  'm 
hoping  it  is  not  the  curse  upon  you  already." 

"What  curse  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that  has  brought  the  wind  against  the 
mist !  I  was  thinking  so !  " 

"  What  curse  ?  " 


The  Sin-Eater.  49 

"You  are  the  man  that  was  the  Sin-Eater 
over  there?" 

"  Ay." 

"  The  man  Macallum  ?  " 

"  Ay." 

"  Strange  it  is,  but  three  days  ago  I  saw  you 
in  Tobermory,  and  heard  you  give  your  name  as 
Neil  Ross,  to  an  lona  man  that  was  there." 

"Well?" 

"  Oh,  sure,  it  is  nothing  to  me.  But  they  say 
the  Sin- Eater  should  not  be  a  man  with  a  hidden 
lump  in  his  pack."1 

"Why?" 

"  For  the  dead  know,  and  are  content.  There 
is  no  shaking  off  any  sins,  then :  for  that  man." 

"  It  is  a  lie." 

"  Maybe  ay,  and  maybe  no." 

"  Well,  have  you  more  to  be  saying  to  me? 
I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  company,  but  it  is 
not  needing  it  I  am,  though  no  offence." 

"  Och,  man,  there  's  no  offence  between  you 
and  me.  Sure,  there  's  lona  in  me,  too,  for  the 
father  of  my  father  married  a  woman  that  was 

1  *.  e.  With  a  criminal  secret,  or  an  undiscovered 
crime. 


50  The  Sin-Eater. 

the  granddaughter  of  Tomais  Macdonald,  who 
was  a  fisherman  there.  No,  no,  it  is  rather 
warning  you  I  would  be." 

"  And  for  what  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,  just  because  of  that  laugh  I  heard 
about." 

"What  laugh?" 

"  The  laugh  of  Adam  Blair  that  is  dead." 

Neil  Ross  stared,  his  eyes  large  and  w\ld. 
He  leaned  a  little  forward.  No  word  came  from 
him.  The  look  that  was  on  his  face  was  the 
question. 

"  Yes  :  it  was  this  way.  Sure,  the  telling  of  it 
is  just  as  I  heard  it.  After  you  ate  the  sins  of 
Adam  Blair,  the  people  there  brought  out  the 
coffin.  When  they  were  putting  him  into  it,  he 
was  as  stiff  as  a  sheep  dead  in  the  snow,  — 
and  just  like  that,  too,  with  his  eyes  wide  open. 
Well,  some  one  saw  you  trampling  the  heather 
down  the  slope  that  is  in  front  of  the  house,  and 
said, '  It  is  the  Sin-Eater  ! '  With  that,  Andrew 
Blair  sneered,  and  said,  '  Ay,  'tis  the  scapegoat 
he  is  ! '  Then,  after  a  while,  he  went  on  :  '  The 
Sin-Eater  they  call  him ;  ay,  just  so ;  and  a  bitter 
good  bargain  it  is,  too,  if  all 's  true  that 's  thought 
true ! '  —  and  with  that  he  laughed,  and  then 


The  Sin-Eater.  51 

his  wife  that  was  behind  him  laughed,  and 
then  —  " 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"  Well,  'tis  Himself  that  hears  and  knows  if 
it  is  true  !  But  this  is  the  thing  I  was  told  : 
After  that  laughing  there  was  a  stillness,  and  a 
dread.  For  all  there  saw  that  the  corpse  had 
turned  its  head  and  was  looking  after  you  as  you 
went  down  the  heather.  Then,  Neil  Ross,  if 
that  be  your  true  name,  Adam  Blair  that  was 
dead  put  up  his  white  face  against  the  sky,  and 
laughed." 

At  this,  Ross  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  gasping 
sob. 

"  It  is  a  lie,  that  thing, "  he  cried,  shaking  his 
fist  at  the  shepherd,  "  it  is  a  lie." 

"  It  is  no  lie.  And  by  the  same  token,  Andrew 
Blair  shrank  back  white  and  shaking,  and  his 
woman  had  the  swoon  upon  her,  and  who  knows 
but  the  corpse  might  have  come  to  life  again 
had  it  not  been  for  Maisie  Macdonald,  the  deid- 
watcher,  who  clapped  a  handful  of  salt  on  his 
eyes,  and  tilted  the  coffin  so  that  the  bottom  of 
it  slid  forward  and  so  let  the  whole  fall  flat  on 
the  ground,  with  Adam  Blair  in  it  sideways,  and 
as  likely  as  not  cursing  and  groaning  as  his  wont 


52  The  Sin-Eater. 

was,  for  the  hurt  both  to  his  old  bones  and  his 
old  ancient  dignity." 

Ross  glared  at  the  man  as  though  the  mad- 
ness was  upon  him.  Fear,  and  horror,  and 
fierce  rage,  swung  him  now  this  way  and  now 
that. 

"  What  will  the  name  of  you  be,  shepherd  ?  " 
he  stuttered  huskily. 

"  It  is  Eachainn  Gilleasbuig  I  am  to  ourselves, 
and  the  English  of  that  for  those  who  have  no 
Gaelic  is  Hector  Gillespie ;  and  I  am  Eachainn 
mac  Ian  mac  Alasdair,  of  Srathsheean,  that  is 
where  Sutherland  lies  against  Ross." 

"  Then  take  this  thing,  and  that  is,  the  curse 
of  the  Sin-Eater  !  And  a  bitter  bad  thing  may 
it  be  upon  you  and  yours  ! " 

And  with  that  Neil  the  Sin-Eater  flung  his 
hand  up  into  the  air,  and  then  leaped  past  the 
shepherd,  and  a  minute  later  was  running 
through  the  frightened  sheep,  with  his  head  low, 
and  a  white  foam  on  his  lips,  and  his  eyes  red 
with  blood  as  a  seal's  that  has  the  death-wound 
on  it 

On  the  third  day  of  the  seventh  month  from 
that  day,  Aulay  Macneill,  coming  into  Bailie- 


The  Sin-Eater.  53 

more  of  lona  from  the  west  side  of  the  island, 
said  to  old  Ronald  MacCormick,  that  was  the 
father  of  his  wife,  that  he  had  seen  Neil  Ross 
again,  and  that  he  was  "  absent"  —  for  though  he 
had  spoken  to  him,  Neil  would  not  answer,  but 
only  gloomed  at  him  from  the  wet  weedy  rock 
where  he  sat. 

The  going  back  of  the  man  had  loosed  every 
tongue  that  was  in  lona.  When,  too,  it  was 
known  that  he  was  wrought  in  some  terrible  way, 
if  not  actually  mad,  the  islanders  whispered 
that  it  was  because  of  the  sins  of  Adam  Blair. 
Seldom  or  never  now  did  they  speak  of  him  by 
his  name,  but,  simply,  "  The  Sin-Eater."  The 
thing  was  not  so  rare  as  to  cause  this  strange- 
ness, nor  did  many  (and  perhaps  none  did)  think 
that  the  sins  of  the  dead  ever  might  or  could  abide 
with  the  living  who  had  merely  done  a  good 
Christian,  charitable  thing.  But  there  was  a 
reason. 

Not  long  after  Neil  Ross  had  come  again  to 
lona,  and  had  settled  down  in  the  ruined  roofless 
house  on  the  croft  of  Ballyrona,  just  like  a  fox 
or  a  wild-cat,  as  the  saying  was,  he  was  given 
fishing-work  to  do  by  Aulay  Macneill,  who  lived 
at  Ard-an-teine,  at  the  rocky  north  end  of  the 


54  The  Sin-Eater. 

McLchar  or  plain  that  is  on  the  west  Atlantic 
coast  of  the  island. 

One  moonlit  night,  either  the  seventh  or 
the  ninth  after  the  earthing  of  Adam  Blair  at 
his  own  place  in  the  Ross,  Aulay  Macneill  saw 
Neil  Ross  steal  out  of  the  shadow  of  BaJlyrona 
and  make  for  the  sea.  Macneill  was  there,  by 
the  rocks,  mending  a  lobster-creel.  He  had 
gone  there  because  of  the  sadness.  Well,  when 
he  saw  the  Sin-Eater  he  watched. 

Neil  crept  from  rock  to  rock  till  he  reached 
the  last  fang  that  churns  the  sea  into  yeast  when 
the  tide  sucks  the  land,  just  opposite. 

Then  he  called  out  something  that  Aulay 
Macneill  could  not  catch.  With  that  he  springs 
up,  and  throws  his  arms  above  him. 

"  Then,"  says  Aulay,  when  he  tells  the  tale, 
"  it  was  like  a  ghost  he  was.  The  moonshine 
was  on  his  face  like  the  curl  o'  a  wave.  White! 
there  is  no  whiteness  like  that  of  the  human  face. 
It  was  whiter  than  the  foam  about  the  skerry  it 
was,  whiter  than  the  moonshining,  whiter  than  — 
well,  as  white  as  the  painted  letters  on  the  black 
boards  of  the  fishing-cobles.  There  he  stood, 
for  all  that  the  sea  was  about  him,  the  slip-slop 
waves  leapin'  wild,  and  the  tide  making  too  at 


The  Sin-Eater.  55 

that.  He  was  shaking  like  a  sail  two  points  off 
the  wind.  It  was  then  that  all  of  a  sudden  he 
called  in  a  womany  screamin'  voice :  — 

" '  I  am  throwing  the  sins  of  Adam  Blair  into 
the  midst  of  ye,  white  dogs  o'  the  sea !  Drown 
them,  tear  them,  drag  them  away  out  into  the 
black  deeps !  Ay,  ay,  ay,  ye  dancin'  wild  waves, 
this  is  the  third  time  I  am  doing  it ;  and  now 
there  is  none  left,  no,  not  a  sin,  not  a  sin. 

'  O-hi,  O-ri,  dark  tide  o'  the  sea, 

I  am  giving  the  sins  of  a  dead  man  to  thee  ! 

By  the  Stones,  by  the  Wind,  by  the  Fire,  by  the  Tree, 

From  the  dead  man's  sins  set  me  free,  set  me  free  1 

Adam  mhic  Anndra  mhic  Adam  and  me, 

Set  us  free  !  Set  us  free  !  ' 

" '  Ay,  sure,  the  Sin- Eater  sang  that  over  and 
over.  And  after  the  third  singing  he  swung  his 
arms  and  screamed,  — 

1  And  listen  to  me,  black  waters  an'  running  tide, 
That  rune  is  the  good  rune  told  me  by  Maisie  the  wise, 
And  I  am  Neil,  the  son  of  Silis  Macallum, 
By  the  black-hearted  evil  man  Murtagh  Ross, 
That  was  the  friend  of  Adam  Mac  Anndra,  God  against 
him  1 ' 

"  And  with  that  he  scrambled  and  fell  into  the 
sea.  But,  as  I  am  Aulay  Mac  Luais  and  no 


56  The  Sin-Eater. 

other,  he  was  up  in  a  moment,  an'  swimmin' 
like  a  seal,  and  then  over  the  rocks  again,  an* 
away  back  to  that  lonely  roofless  place  once 
more,  laughing  wild  at  times,  an'  muttering  an' 
whispering." 

It  was  this  tale  of  Aulay  Macneill's  that  stood 
between  Neil  Ross  and  the  islefolk.  There 
was  something  behind  all  that,  they  whispered 
one  to  another. 

So  it  was  always  the  Sin-Eater  he  was  called 
at  last.  None  sought  him.  The  few  children 
who  came  upon  him,  now  and  again,  fled  at  his 
approach,  or  at  the  very  sight  of  him.  Only 
Aulay  Macneill  saw  him  at  times,  and  had  word 
of  him. 

After  a  month  had  gone  by,  all  knew  that  the 
Sin-Eater  was  wrought  to  madness,  because  of 
this  awful  thing;  the  burden  of  Adam  Blair's 
sins  would  not  go  from  him !  Night  and  day 
he  could  hear  them  laughing  low,  it  was  said. 

But  it  was  the  quiet  madness.  He  went  to 
and  fro  like  a  shadow  in  the  grass,  and  almost 
as  soundless  as  that,  and  as  voiceless.  More 
and  more  the  name  of  him  grew  as  a  terror. 
There  were  few  folk  on  that  wild  west  coast  of 


The  Sin-Eater.  57 

lona,  and  these  few  avoided  him  when  the 
word  ran  that  he  had  knowledge  of  strange 
things,  and  converse,  too,  with  the  secrets  of 
the  sea. 

One  day  Aulay  Macneill,  in  his  boat,  but 
dumb  with  amaze  and  terror  for  him,  saw  him 
at  high-tide  swimming  on  a  long  rolling  wave 
right  into  the  hollow  of  the  Spouting  Cave.  In 
the  memory  of  man,  no  one  had  done  this  and 
escaped  one  of  three  things  :  a  snatching  away 
into  oblivion,  a  strangled  death,  or  madness. 
The  islanders  know  that  there  swims  into  the 
cave  at  full  tide  a  Mar-Tarbh,  a  dreadful  crea- 
ture of  the  sea  that  some  call  a  kelpie  ;  only  it 
is  not  a  kelpie,  which  is  like  a  woman,  but 
rather  is  a  sea-bull,  offspring  of  the  cattle  that 
are  never  seen.  Ill  indeed  for  any  sheep  or 
goat,  ay  or  even  dog  or  child,  if  any  happens  to 
be  leaning  over  the  edge  of  the  Spouting  Cave 
when  the  Mar-Tarbh  roars ;  for,  of  a  surety,  it 
will  fall  in  and  straightway  be  devoured. 

With  awe  and  trembling  Aulay  listened  for 
the  screaming  of  the  doomed  man.  It  was  full 
tide,  and  the  sea-beast  would  be  there. 

The  minutes  passed,  and  no  sign.  Only  the 
hollow  booming  of  the  sea,  as  it  moved  like  a 


58  The  Sin-Eater. 

baffled  blind  giant  round  the  cavern-bases;  only 
the  rush  and  spray  of  the  water  flung  up  the 
narrow  shaft  high  into  the  windy  air  above  the 
cliff  it  penetrates. 

At  last  he  saw  what  looked  like  a  mass  of 
sea-weed  swirled  out  on  the  surge.  It  was  the 
Sin-Eater.  With  a  leap,  Aulay  was  at  his  oars. 
The  boat  swung  through  the  sea.  Just  before 
Neil  Ross  was  about  to  sink  for  the  second 
time,  he  caught  him,  and  dragged  him  into  the 
boat. 

But  then,  as  ever  after,  nothing  was  to  be  got 
out  of  the  Sin-Eater  save  a  single  saying  :  "  Tha 
e  lamhatt  fuarf  Tha  e  lamhan  fuar!"  "It 
has  a  cold,  cold  hand ! " 

The  telling  of  this  and  other  tales  left  none 
free  upon  the  island  to  look  upon  the  "scape- 
goat "  save  as  one  accursed. 

It  was  in  the  third  month  that  a  new  phase  of 
his  madness  came  upon  Neil  Ross. 

The  horror  of  the  sea  and  the  passion  for  the 
sea  came  over  him  at  the  same  happening. 
Oftentimes  he  would  race  along  the  shore, 
screaming  wild  names  to  it,  now  hot  with  hate 
and  loathing,  now  as  the  pleading  of  a  man 
with  the  woman  of  his  love.  And  strange 


The  Sin-Eater.  59 

chants  to  it,  too,  were  upon  his  lips.  Old,  old 
lines  of  forgotten  runes  were  overheard  by 
Aulay  Macneill,  and  not  Aulay  only,  —  lines 
wherein  the  ancient  sea-name  of  the  island, 
loua,  that  was  given  to  it  long  before  it  was 
called  lona,  or  any  other  of  the  nine  names  that 
are  said  to  belong  to  it,  occurred  again  and 
again. 

The  flowing  tide  it  was  that  wrought  him 
thus.  At  the  ebb  he  would  wander  across  the 
weedy  slabs  or  among  the  rocks,  silent,  and 
more  like  a  lost  duinshee  than  a  man. 

Then  again  after  three  months  a  change  in 
his  madness  came.  None  knew  what  it  was, 
though  Aulay  said  that  the  man  moaned  and 
moaned  because  of  the  awful  burden  he  bore. 
No  drowning  seas  for  the  sins  that  could  not  be 
washed  away,  no  grave  for  the  live  sins  that 
would  be  quick  till  the  Day  of  the  Judgment ! 

For  weeks  thereafter  he  disappeared.  As  to 
where  he  was,  it  is  not  for  the  knowing. 

Then  at  last  came  that  third  day  of  the  sev- 
enth month  when,  as  I  have  said,  Aulay  Mac- 
neill told  old  Ronald  MacCormick  that  he  had 
seen  the  Sin-Eater  again. 

It  was  only  a  half-truth  that  he  told,  though. 


60  The  Sin-Eater. 

For  after  he  had  seen  Neil  Ross  upon  the  rock, 
he  had  followed  him  when  he  rose  and  wandered 
back  to  the  roofless  place  which  he  haunted  now 
as  of  yore.  Less  wretched  a  shelter  now  it 
was,  because  of  the  summer  that  was  come, 
though  a  cold  wet  summer  at  that. 

"  Is  that  you,  Neil  Ross?"  he  had  asked,  as 
he  peered  into  the  shadows  among  the  ruins  of 
the  house. 

"  That 's  not  my  name,"  said  the  Sin-Eater ; 
and  he  seemed  as  strange  then  and  there,  as 
though  he  were  a  castaway  from  a  foreign  ship. 

"  And  what  will  it  be  then,  you  that  are  my 
friend,  and  sure  knowing  me  as  Aulay  Mac 
Luais,  —  Aulay  Macneill  that  never  grudges  you 
bit  or  sup  ?  " 

"I  am  Judas." 

"And  at  that  word,"  says  Aulay  Macneill, 
when  he  tells  the  tale,  "at  that  word  the  pulse 
in  my  heart  was  like  a  bat  in  a  shut  room.  But 
after  a  bit  I  took  up  the  talk. 

"'Indeed,'  I  said,  'and  I  was  not  for  know- 
ing that.  May  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  whose 
son,  and  of  what  place  ? ' 

"  But  all  he  said  to  me  was, '  /  am  Judas.'' 


The  Sin-Eater.  6l 

"Well,  I  said,  to  comfort  him,  'Sure,  it's 
not  such  a  bad  name  in  itself,  though  I  am 
knowing  some  which  have  a  more  homelike 
sound.'  But  no,  it  was  no  good. 

"  '  I  am  Judas.  And  because  I  sold  the  Son 
of  God  for  five  pieces  of  silver — 'But  here  I 
interrupted  him  and  said,  'Sure  now,  Neil,  —  I 
mean,  Judas,  —  it  was  eight  times  five.'  Yet 
the  simpleness  of  his  sorrow  prevailed,  and  I 
listened  with  the  wet  in  my  eyes. 

" '  I  am  Judas.  And  because  I  sold  the  Son 
of  God  for  five  silver  shillings,  He  laid  upon  me 
all  the  nameless  black  sins  of  the  world.  And 
that  is  why  I  am  bearing  them  till  the  Day  of 
Days.' " 

And  this  was  the  end  of  the  Sin-Eater,  —  for 
I  will  not  tell  the  long  story  of  Aulay  Macneill, 
that  gets  longer  and  longer  every  winter,  but 
only  the  unchanging  close  of  it. 

I  will  tell  it  in  the  words  of  Aulay. 

"  A  bitter  wild  day  it  was,  that  day  I  saw  him  to 
see  him  no  more.  It  was  late.  The  sea  was  red 
with  the  flamin'  light  that  burned  up  the  air  be- 
twixt lona  and  all  that  is  west  of  West.  I  was 


62  The  Sin-Eater. 

on  the  shore,  looking  at  the  sea.  The  big  green 
waves  came  in  like  the  chariots  in  the  Holy 
Book.  Well,  it  was  on  the  black  shoulder  of 
one  of  them,  just  short  of  the  ton  o'  foam  that 
swept  above  it,  that  I  saw  a  spar  surgin'  by. 

" '  What  is  that  ? '  I  said  to  myself.  And  the 
reason  of  my  wondering  was  this.  I  saw  that  a 
smaller  spar  was  swung  across  it.  And  while  I 
was  watching  that  thing  another  great  billow 
came  in  with  a  roar,  and  hurled  the  double-spar 
back,  and  not  so  far  from  me  but  I  might  have 
gripped  it.  But  who  would  have  gripped  that 
thing  if  he  were  for  seeing  what  I  saw  ? 

"  It  is  Himself  knows  that  what  I  say  is  a 
true  thing. 

"  On  that  spar  was  Neil  Ross,  the  Sin-Eater. 
Naked  he  was  as  the  day  he  was  born.  And 
he  was  lashed,  too,  ay,  sure  he  was  lashed  to  it 
by  ropes  round  and  round  his  legs  and  his 
waist  and  his  left  arm.  It  was  the  Cross  he  was 
on.  I  saw  that  thing  with  the  fear  upon  me. 
Ah,  poor  drifting  wreck  that  he  was !  Judas 
on  the  Cross  !  It  was  his  eric  / 

"  But  even  as  I  watched,  shaking  in  my  limbs, 
I  saw  that  there  was  life  in  him  still.  The  lips 
were  moving,  and  his  right  arm  was  ever  for 


The  Sin-Eater.  63 

swinging  this  way  and  that.  'Twas  like  an  oar 
working  him  off  a  lee  shore  ;  ay,  that  was  what 
I  thought. 

"  Then  all  at  once  he  caught  sight  of  me. 
Well,  he  knew  me,  poor  man,  that  has  his  share 
of  heaven  now,  I  am  thinking  ! 

"  He  waved,  and  called,  but  the  hearing  could 
not  be,  because  of  a  big  surge  o'  water  that 
came  tumbling  down  upon  him.  In  the  stroke 
of  an  oar  he  was  swept  close  by  the  rocks  where 
I  was  standing.  In  that  flounderiri',  seethin' 
whirlpool  I  saw  the  white  face  of  him  for  a 
moment,  an',  as  he  went  out  on  the  resurge  like 
a  hauled  net,  I  heard  these  words  fallin'  against 
my  ears :  — 

"'An  eirig  m? anama!  — In  ransom  for 
my  soul ! ' 

"  And  with  that  I  saw  the  double-spar  turn  over 
and  slide  down  the  back-sweep  of  a  drowning 
big  wave.  Ay,  sure,  it  went  out  to  the  deep  sea 
swift  enough  then.  It  was  in  the  big  eddy  that 
rushes  between  Skerry-M6r  and  Skerry-Beag. 
I  did  not  see  it  again,  no,  not  for  the  quarter  of 
an  hour,  I  am  thinking.  Then  I  saw  just  the 
whirling  top  of  it  rising  out  of  the  flying  yeast 
of  a  great  black,  blustering  wave  that  was  rush- 


64  The  Sin-Eater. 

ing  northward  before  the  current  that  is  called 
the  Black-Eddy. 

"  With  that  you  have  the  end  of  Neil  Ross : 
ay,  sure,  him  that  was  called  the  Sin-Eater. 
And  that  is  a  true  thing,  and  may  God  save  us 
the  sorrow  of  sorrows  ! 

"  And  that  is  all." 


The  Ninth  Wave. 


THE  wind  fell  as  we  crossed  the  Sound. 
There  was  only  one  oar  in  the  boat,  and  we 
lay  idly  adrift.  The  tide  was  still  on  the  ebb,  and 
so  we  made  way  for  Soa,  though  well  before  the 
island  could  be  reached  the  tide  would  turn,  and 
the  sea-wind  would  stir,  and  we  be  up  the  Sound, 
and  at  Balliemore  again  almost  as  quick  as  the 
laying  of  a  net. 

As  we  —  and  by  "us"  I  am  meaning  Phadric 
Macrae  and  Ivor  McLean,  fishermen  of  lona, 
and  myself  beside  Ivor  at  the  helm  —  as  we 
slid  slowly  past  the  ragged  islet  known  as 
Eilean-na-h'  Aon-Chaorach,  torn  and  rent  by  the 
tides  and  surges  of  a  thousand  years,  I  saw  a 
school  of  seals  basking  in  the  sun.  One  by  one 
slithered  into  the  water,  and  I  could  note  the 
dark  forms,  like  moving  patches  of  sea-weed, 
drifting  in  the  green  underglooms. 
5 


66  The  Ninth  Wave. 

Then  after  a  time  we  bore  down  upon  Sgeir- 
na-Oir,  a  barren  rock.  Three  great  cormorants 
stood  watching  us.  Their  necks  shone  in  the 
sunlight  like  snakes  mailed  in  blue  and  green. 
On  the  upper  ledges  were  eight  or  ten  northern 
divers.  They  did  not  seem  to  see  us,  though  I 
knew  that  their  fierce  light-blue  eyes  noted  every 
motion  we  made.  The  small  sea-ducks  bobbed 
up  and  down,  first  one  flirt  of  a  little  black- 
feathered  rump,  then  another,  then  a  third,  till 
a  score  or  so  were  under  water,  and  half  a  hun- 
dred more  were  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to 
follow  suit.  A  skua  hopped  among  the  sputter- 
ing weed,  and  screamed  disconsolately  at  inter- 
vals. Among  the  myriad  colonies  of  close-set 
mussels,  which  gave  a  blue  bloom,  like  that  of  the 
sloe,  to  the  weed-covered  boulders,  a  few  kitti- 
wakes  and  dotterels  flitted  to  and  fro.  High  over 
head,  white  against  the  blue  as  a  cloudlet,  a  gan- 
net  hung  motionless,  seemingly  frozen  to  the  sky. 

Below  the  lapse  of  the  boat  the  water  was  pale 
green.  I  could  see  the  liath  and  saith  fanning 
their  fins  in  slow  flight,  and  sometimes  a  little 
scurrying  cloud  of  tiny  fluckies  and  inch-long 
codling.  For  two  or  three  fathoms  beyond  the 
boat  the  waters  were  blue.  If  blueness  can  be 


The  Ninth  Wave.  67 

alive,  and  have  its  own  life  and  movement,  it 
must  be  happy  on  these  western  seas,  where  it 
dreams  into  shadowy  Lethes  of  amethyst  and 
deep,  dark  oblivions  of  violet. 

Suddenly  a  streak  of  silver  ran  for  a  moment 
along  the  sea  to  starboard.  It  was  like  an 
arrow  of  moonlight  shot  along  the  surface  of  the 
blue  and  gold.  Almost  immediately  afterward, 
a  stertorous  sigh  was  audible.  A  black  knife  cut 
the  flow  of  the  water :  the  shoulder  of  a  pollack. 

"  The  mackerel  are  coming  in  from  the  sea," 
said  Macrae.  He  leaned  forward,  wet  the  palm 
of  his  hand,  and  held  it  seaward.  "  Ay,  the  tide 
has  turned 

Ohrone  —  achree  —  an  —  Sruth-mara  ! 
Ohrone  —  achree  —  an  —  Lionadh  !  " 

he  droned  monotonously,  over  and  over  with 
few  variations. 

"  An'  it 's  Oh  an'  Oh  for  the  tides  o'  the  sea, 
An'  it 's  Oh  for  the  flowing  tide," 

I  sang  at  last  in  mockery. 

"  Come,  Phadric,"  I  cried,  "  you  are  as  bad  as 
Peter  McAlpin's  lassie,  Fiona,  with  the  pipes ! " 

Both  men  laughed  lightly.  On  the  last  Sab- 
bath, old  McAlpin  had  held  a  prayer-meeting 


68  The  Ninth  Wave. 

in  his  little  house  in  the  "street,"  in  Balliemore 
of  lona.  At  the  end  of  his  discourse  he  told 
his  hearers  that  the  voice  of  God  was  terrible 
only  to  the  evil-doer  but  beautiful  to  the  right- 
eous man,  and  that  this  voice  was  even  now 
among  them,  speaking  in  a  thousand  ways  and 
yet  in  one  way.  And  at  this  moment,  that  elfin 
granddaughter  of  his,  who  was  in  the  byre  close 
by,  let  go  upon  the  pipes  with  so  long  and  weary 
a  whine  that  the  collies  by  the  fire  whimpered, 
and  would  have  howled  outright  but  for  the 
Word  of  God  that  still  lay  open  on  the  big  stool 
in  front  of  old  Peter.  For  it  was  in  this  way 
that  the  dogs  knew  when  the  Sabbath  readings 
were  over ;  and  there  was  not  one  that  would  dare 
to  bark  or  howl,  much  less  rise  and  go  out,  till 
the  Book  was  closed  with  a  loud,  solemn  bang. 
Well,  again  and  again  that  weary  quavering  moan 
went  up  and  down  the  room,  till  even  old  Mc- 
Alpin  smiled,  though  he  was  fair  angry  with 
Fiona.  But  he  made  the  sign  of  silence,  and 
began :  "  My  brethren,  even  in  this  trial  it  may 
be  the  Almighty  has  a  message  for  us  " — when 
at  that  moment  Fiona  was  kicked  by  a  cow, 
and  fell  against  the  board  with  the  pipes,  and 
squeezed  out  so  wild  a  wail  that  McAlpin  started 


The  Ninth  Wave.  69 

up  and  cried,  in  the  Lowland  way  that  he  had 
won  out  of  his  wife,  "  Hoots,  havers,  an*  a'  / 
come  oot  o1  that,  ye  DeiFs  spunkie  /  " 

So  it  was  this  memory  that  made  Phadric  and 
Ivor  smile.  Suddenly  Ivor  began  with  a  long 
rising  and  falling  cadence,  an  old  Gaelic  rune 
of  the  Faring  of  the  Tide. 

Athair,  A  mhic,  A  Spioraid  Naoimh, 

Biodh  an  Tri-aon  leinn,  a  la's  a  dK  oidhche ; 

S' air  chul  nan  tonn,  no  air  thaobh  natn  beann! 

O  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Spirit, 

Be  the  Three-in-One  with  us  day  and  night, 

On  the  crested  wave,  when  waves  run  high  1 

And  out  of  the  place  in  the  West 

Where  Tir-nan-6g,  the  Land  of  Youth 

Is,  the  Land  of  Youth  everlasting, 

Send  the  great  Tide  that  carries  the  sea-weed 

And  brings  the  birds,  out  of  the  North  : 

And  bid  it  wind  as  a  snake  through  the  bracken, 

As  a  great  snake  through  the  heather  of  the  sea, 

The  fair  blooming  heather  of  the  sunlit  sea. 

And  may  it  bring  the  fish  to  our  nets, 
And  the  great  fish  to  our  lines  : 
And  may  it  sweep  away  the  sea-hounds 
That  devour  the  herring  : 


7O  The  Ninth  Wave. 

And  may  it  drown  the  heavy  pollack 

That  respect  not  our  nets 

But  fall  into  and  tear  them  and  ruin  them  wholly. 

And  may  I,  or  any  that  is  of  my  blood, 

Behold  not  the  Wave-Haunter  who  comes  in  with  the  Tide, 

Or  the  Maighdeann-mara  who  broods  in  the  shallows, 

Where  the  sea-caves  are,  in  the  ebb  : 

And  fair  may  my  fishing  be,  and  the  fishing  of  those  near 

to  me, 

And  good  may  this  Tide  be,  and  good  may  it  bring : 
And  may  there  be  no  calling  in  the  Flow,  this  Sruth-mara, 
And  may  there  be  no  burden  in  the  Ebb  I  Ochone  ! 

An  ainm  an  Affiar,  j'  an  Mhic,  s1  an  Spioraid  Naoimh, 
Biodh  an  Tri-aon  leinn,  a  la's  a  dh?  oidhc/ie, 
S1  air  chul  nan  tonn,  no  air  thaobh  nant  beann .' 

Oc/ione!  arone! 

Both  men  sang  the  closing  lines  with  loudly 
swelling  voices  and  with  a  wailing  fervour  which 
no  words  of  mine  could  convey. 

Runes  of  this  kind  prevail  all  over  the  isles, 
from  the  Butt  of  Lewis  to  the  Rhinns  of  Islay : 
identical  in  spirit,  though  varying  in  lines  and 
phrases,  according  to  the  mood  and  tempera- 
ment of  the  rannaiche  or  singer,  the  local  or 
peculiar  physiognomy  of  nature,  the  instinctive 
yielding  to  hereditary  wonder-words,  and  other 


The  Ninth  Wave.  71 

compelling  circumstances  of  the  outer  and 
inner  life.  Almost  needless  to  say,  the  sea- 
maid or  sea-witch  and  the  Wave- Haunter  occur 
in  many  of  those  wild  runes,  particularly  in 
those  that  are  impromptu.  In  the  Outer  Heb- 
rides, the  runes  are  wild  natural  hymns  rather 
than  Pagan  chants ;  though  marked  distinctions 
prevail  there  also,  —  for  in  Harris  and  the  Lews 
the  folk  are  Protestant  almost  to  a  man,  while  in 
Benbecula  and  the  Southern  Hebrides  the  Cath- 
olics are  in  a  like  ascendancy.  But  all  are  at 
one  in  the  common  Brotherhood  of  Sorrow. 

The  only  lines  in  Ivor  McLean's  wailing  song 
which  puzzled  me  were  the  two  last  which  came 
before  "the  good  words,"  "in  the  name  of  the 
Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Spirit,"  etc. 

"Tell  me,  in  English,  Ivor,"  I  said,  after  a 
silence,  wherein  I  pondered  the  Gaelic  words, 
"what  is  the  meaning  of  — 

'  And  may  there  be  no  calling  in  the  Flow,  this  Sruth-mara, 
And  may  there  be  no  burden  in  the  Ebb  ? '  " 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  telling  you  what  is  the  meaning 
of  that.  When  the  great  tide  that  wells  out  of 
the  hollow  of  the  sea,  and  sweeps  towards  all  the 
coasts  of  the  world,  first  stirs,  when  she  will  be 


72  The  Ninth  Wave. 

knowing  that  the  Ebb  is  not  any  more  moving 
at  all,  she  sends  out  nine  long  waves.  And  I 
will  be  forgetting  what  these  waves  are  :  but 
one  will  be  to  shepherd  the  sea-weed  that  is  for 
the  blessing  of  man,  and  another  is  for  to  wake 
the  fish  that  sleep  in  the  deeps,  and  another  is 
for  this,  and  another  will  be  for  that,  and  the 
seventh  is  to  rouse  the  Wave-Haunter  and  all 
the  creatures  of  the  water  that  fear  and  hate 
man,  and  the  eighth  no  man  knows,  though  the 
priests  say  it  is  to  carry  the  Whisper  of  Mary, 
and  the  ninth  —  " 

"  And  the  ninth,  Ivor?" 

"  May  it  be  far  from  us,  from  you  and  from  me 
and  from  those  of  us !  An'  I  will  be  sayin'  noth- 
ing against  it,  not  I ;  nor  against  anything  that 
is  in  the  sea!  An'  you  will  be  noting  that! 

"  Well,  this  ninth  wave  goes  through  the  water 
on  the  forehead  of  the  tide.  An'  wherever  it  will 
be  going  it  calls.  An'  the  call  of  it  is,  '  Come 
away,  come  away,  the  sea  waits  !  Follow  /  .  .  . 
Come  away,  come  away,  the  sea  waits/  Fol- 
low ! '  *  An'  whoever  hears  that  must  arise  and 
go,  whether  he  be  fish  or  pollack,  or  seal  or  otter, 

l  Ivor  of  course  gave  these  words  in  the  Gaelic. 


The  Ninth  Wave.  73 

or  great  skua  or  small  tern,  or  bird  or  beast  of 
the  shore,  or  bird  or  beast  of  the  sea,  or  whether 
it  be  man  or  woman  or  child,  or  any  of  the 
others." 

"  Any  of  the  others,  Ivor  ?  " 

"I  will  not  be  saying  anything  about  that," 
replied  McLean,  gravely ;  "  you  will  be  knowing 
well  what  I  mean,  and  if  you  do  not  it  is  not  for 
me  to  talk  of  that  which  is  not  to  be  talked 
about. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  for  saying :  that  calling  of  the 
ninth  wave  of  the  Tide  is  what  lan-M&r  of  the 
hills  speaks  of  as  '  the  whisper  of  the  snow  that 
falls  on  the  hair,  the  whisper  of  the  frost  that 
lies  on  the  cold  face  of  him  that  will  never  be 
waking  again.' " 

"Death?" 

"  It  is  you  that  will  be  saying  it. 

"  Well,"  he  resumed  after  a  moment's  hush, 
"  a  man  may  live  by  the  sea  for  five  score  years 
and  never  hear  that  ninth  wave  call  in  any  Srilth- 
mdra,  but  soon  or  late  he  will  hear  it.  An* 
many  is  the  Flood  that  will  be  silent  for  all  of 
us :  but  there  will  be  one  Flood  for  each  of  us 
that  will  be  a  dreadful  Voice,  a  voice  of  terror 
and  of  dreadfulness.  And  whoever  hears  that 


74  The  Ninth  Wave. 

Voice,  he  for  sure  will  be  the  burden  in  the 
Ebb." 

"  Has  any  heard  that  Voice,  and  lived  ?  " 

McLean  looked  at  me,  but  said  nothing. 
Phadric  Macrae  rose,  tautened  a  rope,  and 
made  a  sign  to  me  to  put  the  helm  alee.  Then, 
looking  into  the  green  water  slipping  by,  —  for 
the  tide  was  feeling  our  keel,  and  a  stronger 
breath  from  the  sea  lay  against  the  hollow  that 
was  growing  in  the  sail,  —  he  said  to  Ivor  :  — 

"  You  should  be  telling  her  of  Ivor  Maclvor 
Mhic  Niall." 

"  Who  was  Ivor  MacNeil  ?  "  I  said. 

"  He  was  the  father  of  my  mother,"  answered 
McLean,  "  and  was  known  throughout  the  north 
isles  as  Ivor  Carminish,  for  he  had  a  farm  on 
the  eastern  lands  of  Carminish  which  lie  between 
the  hills  called  Strondeval  and  Rondeval,  that 
are  in  the  far  south  of  the  northern  Hebrides, 
and  near  what  will  be  known  to  you  as  the  Obb 
of  Harris. 

"  And  I  will  now  be  telling  you  about  him  in 
the  Gaelic,  for  it  is  more  easy  to  me,  and  more 
pleasant  for  us  all. 

"When  Ivor  MacEachainn  Carminish,  that 
was  Ivor's  father,  died,  he  left  the  farm  to  his 


The  Ninth  Wave.  75 

elder  son  and  to  his  second  son,  Sheumais. 
By  this  time,  Ivor  was  married,  and  had  the 
daughter  who  is  my  mother.  But  he  was  a 
lonely  man,  and  an  islesman  to  the  heart's  core. 
So  ...  but  you  will  be  knowing  the  isles  that 
lie  off  the  Obb  of  Harris, —  the  Saghay,  and 
Ensay,  and  Killegray,  and  farther  west,  Bern- 
eray  and,  north-west,  Pabaidh,  and  beyond  that 
again,  Shillaidh  ?  " 

For  the  moment  I  was  confused,  for  these 
names  are  so  common :  and  I  was  thinking  of 
the  big  isle  of  Berneray  that  lies  in  huge  Loch 
Roag  that  has  swallowed  so  great  a  mouthful  of 
Western  Lewis,  to  the  seaward  of  which  also  are 
the  two  Pabbays,  Pabaidh  Mor  and  Pabaidh 
Beag.  But  when  McLean  added,  "  and  other 
isles  of  the  Caolas  Harrish "  (the  Sound  of 
Harris),  I  remembered  aright ;  and  indeed  I 
knew  both,  though  the  nor'  isles  better,  for  I 
had  lived  near  Callernish  on  the  inner  waters 
of  Roag. 

"  Well,  Carminish  had  sheep-runs  upon  some 
of  these.  One  summer  the  gloom  came  upon 
him,  and  he  left  Sheumais  to  take  care  of 
the  farm  and  of  Morag  his  wife,  and  of  Sheen 
their  daughter ;  and  he  went  to  live  upon  Pab- 


76  The  Ninth  Wave. 

bay,  near  the  old  castle  that  is  by  the  Rua  Dune 
on  the  south-east  of  the  isle.  There  he  stayed 
for  three  months.  But  on  the  last  night  of  each 
month  he  heard  the  sea  calling  in  his  sleep; 
and  what  he  heard  was  like  '  Come  away,  come 
away,  the  sea  waits  I  Follow  .  .  .  Come  away, 
come  away,  the  sea  waits  !  Follow  ! '  And  he 
knew  the  voice  of  the  ninth  wave ;  and  that  it 
would  not  be  there  in  the  darkness  of  sleep  if  it 
were  not  already  moving  towards  him  through 
the  dark  ways  of  An  Dan  (Destiny).  So,  think- 
ing to  pass  away  from  a  place  doomed  for  him, 
and  that  he  might  be  safe  elsewhere,  he  sailed 
north  to  a  kinsman's  croft  on  Aird- Vanish  in 
the  island  of  Taransay.  But  at  the  end  of  that 
month  he  heard  in  his  sleep  the  noise  of  tidal 
waters,  and  at  the  gathering  of  the  ebb  he  heard 
'  Come  away,  come  away,  the  sea  waits  !  Fol- 
low!' Then  once  more,  when  the  November 
heat-spell  had  come,  he  sailed  farther  northward 
still.  He  stopped  a  while  at  Eilean  Mhea- 
lastaidh,  which  is  under  the  morning  shadow 
of  high  Griomabhal  on  the  mainland,  and  at 
other  places,  till  he  settled,  in  the  third  week, 
at  his  cousin  Eachainn  MacEachainn's  bothy, 
near  Callernish,  where  the  Great  Stones  of  old 


The  Ninth  Wave.  77 

stand  by  the  sea,  and  hear  nothing  forever  but 
the  noise  of  the  waves  of  the  North  Sea  and  the 
cry  of  the  sea-wind. 

"  And  when  the  last  night  of  November  had 
come  and  gone,  and  he  had  heard  in  his  sleep  no 
calling  of  the  ninth  wave  of  the  Flowing  Tide, 
he  took  heart  of  grace.  All  through  that  next 
day  he  went  in  peace.  Eachainn  wondered 
often  with  slant  eyes  when  he  saw  the  morose 
man  smile,  and  heard  his  silence  give  way  now 
and  again  to  a  short,  mirthless  laugh. 

"The  two  were  at  the  porridge,  and  Eachainn 
was  muttering  \usBu? cheas  dha'n  Ti,  the  Thanks 
to  the  Being,  when  Carminish  suddenly  leaped  to 
his  feet,  and,  with  white  face,  stood  shaking  like 
a  rope  in  the  wind. 

" '  In  the  name  of  the  Son,  what  is  it,  Ivor 
Mhic  Ivor?  What  is  it,  Carminish?'  cried 
Eachainn. 

"  But  the  stricken  man  could  scarce  speak.  At 
last,  with  a  long  sigh,  he  turned  and  looked 
at  his  kinsman,  and  that  look  went  down  into 
the  shivering  heart  like  the  polar  wind  into  a 
crofter's  hut. 

" '  What  -will  be  that  f '  said  Carminish,  in  a 
hoarse  whisper. 


78  The  Ninth  Wave. 

"  Eachainn  listened,  but  he  could  hear  no  wail- 
ing beann-sith,  no  unwonted  sound. 

" '  Sure,  I  hear  nothing  but  the  wind  moaning 
through  the  Great  Stones,  an'  beyond  them  the 
noise  of  the  Flowin'  Tide.' 

" '  The  Flowing  Tide  !  The  Flowing  Tide  ! ' 
cried  Carminish,  and  no  longer  with  the  hush  in 
the  voice.  'An'  what  is  it  you  hear  in  the 
Flowing  Tide  ? ' 

"  Eachainn  looked  in  silence.  What  was  the 
thing  he  could  say  ?  For  now  he  knew. 

"Ah,  och,  och,  ochone,  you  may  well  sigh, 
Eachainn  Mhic  Eachainn !  For  the  ninth  wave 
o'  the  Flowing  Tide  is  coming  out  o'  the  North 
Sea  upon  this  shore,  an'  already  I  can  hear  it 
calling,  '  Come  away,  come  away,  the  sea  waits  / 
Follow!  .  .  .  Come  away,  come  away,  the  sea 
waits  !  Follow  /  * 

"And  with  that  Carminish  dashed  out  the  light 
that  was  upon  the  table,  and  leaped  upon  Each- 
ainn, and  dinged  him  to  the  floor  and  would 
have  killed  him,  but  for  the  growing  noise  of 
the  sea  beyond  the  Stannin'  Stones  o'  Callanish, 
and  the  woe-weary  sough  o'  the  wind,  an'  the 
calling,  calling,  '  Come,  come  away  /  Come, 
come  away  ! ' 


The  Ninth  Wave.  79 

"  And  so  he  rose  and  staggered  to  the  door,  and 
flung  himself  out  into  the  night,  while  Eachainn 
lay  upon  the  floor  and  gasped  for  breath,  and 
then  crawled  to  his  knees,  an'  took  the  Book 
from  the  shelf  by  his  fern-straw  mattress,  an' 
put  his  cheek  against  it,  an'  moaned  to  God,  an' 
cried  like  a  child  for  the  doom  that  was  upon 
Ivor  Maclvor  Mhic  Niall,  who  was  of  his  own 
blood,  and  his  own  dall  at  that. 

"  And  while  he  moaned,  Carminish  was  stalk- 
ing through  the  great,  gaunt,  looming  Stones  of 
the  Druids,  that  were  here  before  St  Colum 
and  his  Shona  came,  and  laughing  wild.  And 
all  the  time  the  tide  was  coming  in,  and  the 
tide  and  the  deep  sea  and  the  waves  of  the 
shore  and  the  wind  in  the  salt  grass  and  the 
weary  reeds  and  the  black-pool  gale  made  a 
noise  of  a  dreadful  hymn,  that  was  the  death- 
hymn,  the  going-rune,  of  Ivor  the  son  of  Ivor 
of  the  kindred  of  Niall. 

"  And  it  was  there  that  they  found  his  body 
in  the  grey  dawn,  wet  and  stiff  with  the  salt 
ooze.  For  the  soul  that  was  in  him  had  heard 
the  call  of  the  ninth  wave  that  was  for  him. 
So,  and  may  the  Being  keep  back  that  hour  for 


8o  The  Ninth  Wave. 

us,  there  was  a  burden  upon  that  Ebb  on  the 
morning  of  that  day. 

"  Also,  there  is  this  thing  for  the  hearing. 
In  the  dim  dark  before  the  curlew  cried  at  dawn, 
Eachainn  heard  a  voice  about  the  house,  a  voice 
going  like  a  thing  blind  and  baffled, 

'  Gut  till,  cha  till,  C/M  till  mi  tuille .' ' " 
(I  return,  I  return,  I  return  never  more  !) 


The  Judgment  o'  God. 


THE  wind  that  blows  on  the  feet  of  the  dead 
came  calling  loud  across  the  Ross,  as  we  put 
about  the  boat  off  the  Rudhe  Callachain.  The 
ebb  sucked  at  the  keel,  while,  like  a  cork,  we 
were  swung  lightly  by  the  swell.  For  we  were 
in  the  strait  between  Eilean  Dubh  and  the  Isle 
of  the  Swine ;  and  that  is  where  the  current  has 
a  bad  pull,  the  current  that  is  made  of  the  in- 
flow and  the  outflow.  I  have  heard  that  a 
weary  woman  of  the  olden  days  broods  down 
there  in  a  cave,  and  that  day  and  night  she 
weaves  a  web  of  water,  which  a  fierce  spirit  in 
the  sea  tears  this  way  and  that  as  soon  as 
woven. 

So  we  put  about,  and  went  before  the  east 

wind ;  and  below  the  dip  of  the  sail  alee   I 

watched   Soa  grow    bigger   and   gaunter    and 

blacker  against  the  white  wave.    As  we  came 

6 


82  The  Judgment  o'  God. 

so  near  that  it  was  as  though  the  wash  of  the 
sea  among  the  hollows  bubbled  in  our  ears,  I 
saw  a  large  bull-seal  lying  half-in,  half-out  of 
the  water,  and  staring  at  us  with  an  angry, 
fearless  look.  Phadric  and  Ivor  caught  sight 
of  it  almost  at  the  same  moment. 

To  my  surprise  Macrae  suddenly,  rose  and 
put  a  rosad  upon  it.  I  could  hear  the  wind 
through  his  clothes  as  he  stood  by  the  mast. 

The  rosad  or  spell  was,  of  course,  in  the  Gae- 
lic ;  but  its  meaning  was  something  like  this :  — 

Ho,  ro,  O  Ron  dubh,  O  Ron  dubh  ! 

An  ainm  an  Atkar,  0  Ron  .' 

'S  an  mhic,  O  Ron .' 

'S  an  Sfioraid  Naoimh, 

O  Ron-a'-mhara,  O  Ron  dubk  ! 

Ho,  ro,  O  black  Seal,  O  black  Seal  I 

In  the  name  of  the  Father, 

And  of  the  Son, 

And  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 

O  Seal  of  the  deep  sea,  O  black  Seal  I 

Hearken  the  thing  that  I  say  to  thee, 
I,  Phadric  MacAlastair  MhicCrae, 
Who  dwell  in  a  house  on  the  Island 
That  you  look  on  night  and  day  from  Soa  1 
For  I  put  rosad  upon  thee, 


The  Judgment  o'  God.  83 

And  upon  the  woman-seal  that  won  thee, 

And  the  women-seal  that  are  thine, 

And  the  young  that  thou  hast, 

Ay,  upon  thee  and  all  thy  kin 

I  put  rosad,  O  Ron  dubh,  O  Ron-a-mhara ! 

And  may  no  harm  come  to  me  or  mine, 

Or  to  any  fishing  or  snaring  that  is  of  me, 

Or  to  any  sailing  by  storm  or  dusk, 

Or  when  the  moonshine  fills  the  blind  eyes  of  the  dead, 

No  harm  to  me  or  mine 

From  thee  or  thine  I 

With  a  slow,  swinging  motion  of  his  head 
Phadric  broke  out  again  into  the  first  words  of 
the  incantation,  and  now  Ivor  joined  him ;  and 
with  the  call  of  the  wind  and  the  leaping  and 
the  splashing  of  the  waves  was  blent  the  chant 
of  the  two  fishermen :  — 

ffo,  ro,  O  Ron  dubh  .'  O  Ron.  dubh .' 

An  ainm  an  Athar,  's  an  M/iic,  's  an  Sfioraid  Naoimh, 

O  Ron-b'-mhkra,  O  Ron  dubh .' 

Then  the  men  sat  back,  with  that  dazed  look 
in  the  eyes  I  have  so  often  seen  in  those  of  men 
or  women  of  the  Isles  who  are  wrought.  No 
word  was  spoken  till  we  came  almost  straight 
upon  Eilean-na-h'  Aon-Chaorach.  Then  at  the 


84  The  Judgment  o'  God. 

rocks  we  tacked,  and  went  splashing  up  the 
Sound,  like  a  pollack  on  a  Sabbath  noon.1 

"  What  was  wrong  with  the  old  man  of  the 
sea?"  I  asked  Macrae. 

At  first  he  would  say  nothing.  He  looked 
vaguely  at  a  coiled  rope ;  then,  with  hand-shaded 
gaze  across  to  the  red  rocks  at  Fhionnaphort. 
I  repeated  my  question.  He  took  refuge  in 
English. 

"  It  wass  ferry  likely  the  Clansman  would  be 
pringing  ta  new  minister-body.  Did  you  pe 
knowing  him,  or  his  people,  or  where  he  came 
from?" 

But  I  was  not  to  be  put  off  thus ;  and  at  last, 
while  Ivor  stared  down  the  green  shelving 
lawns  of  the  sea  below  us,  Phadric  told  me  this 
thing.  His  reluctance  was  partly  due  to  the 
shyness  which  with  the  Gael  almost  invariably 
follows  strong  emotion;  and  partly  to  that 
strange,  obscure,  secretive  instinct  which  is  also 

1  The  lona  fishermen,  and  indeed  the  Gaelic  and  Scot- 
tish fishermen  generally,  believe  that  the  pollack  (porpoise) 
knows  when  it  is  the  Sabbath  ;  and  on  that  day  will  come 
closer  to  the  land,  and  be  more  wanton  in  its  gambols  on 
the  sun-warmed  surface  of  the  sea,  than  on  the  days  when 
the  herring-boats  are  abroad. 


The  Judgment  o'  God.  85 

so  characteristically  Celtic,  and  often  prevents 
Gaels  of  far  apart  isles,  or  of  different  clans, 
from  communicating  to  each  other  stories  or 
legends  of  a  peculiarly  intimate  kind. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  my  father  told  me,  and 
what,  if  you  like,  you  may  hear  again  from  the  sis- 
ter of  my  father,  who  is  the  wife  of  Ian  Finlay, 
who  has  the  farm  on  the  north  side  of  Dun  I. 

"  You  will  have  heard  of  old  James  Achanna 
of  Eilanmore,  off  the  Ord  o'  Sutherland  ?  To 
be  sure,  for  have  you  not  stayed  there  ?  Well, 
I  need  not  tell  you  how  he  came  there  out  of 
the  south ;  but  it  will  be  news  to  you  to  learn 
that  my  elder  brother  Murdoch  was  had  by  him 
as  a  shepherd,  and  to  help  on  the  farm.  And 
the  way  of  that  thing  was  this.  Murdoch  had 
gone  to  the  fishing  north  of  Skye,  with  Angus 
and  William  Macdonald,  and  in  the  great  gale 
that  broke  up  their  boat,  among  so  many  others, 
he  found  himself  stranded  on  Eilanmore. 
Achanna  told  him  that  as  he  was  ruined,  and 
so  far  from  home,  he  would  give  him  employ- 
ment, and  though  Murdoch  had  never  thought 
to  serve  under  a  Galloway  man,  he  agreed. 

"For  a  year  he  worked  on  the  upper  farm, 
Ardoch-beag,  as  it  was  called.  There  the  gloom 


86  The  Judgment  o'  God. 

came  upon  him.  Turn  which  way  he  would, 
the  beauty  that  is  in  the  day  was  no  more.  In 
vain,  when  he  came  out  into  the  air  in  the  morn- 
ing, did  he  cry  Deasiul  /  and  keep  by  the  sun- 
way.  At  night  he  heard  the  sea  calling  in  his 
sleep.  So,  when  the  lambing  was  over,  he  told 
Achanna  that  he  must  go,  for  he  hungered  for 
the  sea.  True,  the  wave  ran  all  around  Eilan- 
more,  but  the  farm  was  between  bare  hills  and 
among  high  moors,  and  the  house  was  in  a 
hollow  place.  But  it  was  needful  for  him  to  go. 
Even  then,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  the  mad- 
ness of  the  sea  was  upon  him. 

"  But  the  Galloway  man  did  not  wish  to  lose 
my  brother,  who  was  a  quiet  man,  and  worked  for 
a  small  wage.  Murdoch  was  a  silent  lad,  but  he 
had  often  the  light  in  his  eyes,  and  none  knew 
of  what  he  was  thinking;  maybe  it  was  of  a 
lass,  or  a  friend,  or  of  the  ingle-neuk  where  his 
old  mother  sang  o'  nights,  or  of  the  sight  and 
sound  of  lona  that  was  his  own  land ;  but  I  'm 
considerin'  it  was  the  sea  he  was  dreamin'  of,  — 
how  the  waves  ran  laughin'  an'  dancin'  against 
the  tide,  like  lambkins  comin'  to  meet  the  shep- 
herd, or  how  the  big  green  billows  went  sweepin' 
white  an'  ghostly  through  the  moonless  nights. 


The  Judgment  o'  God.  87 

"So  the  troth  that  was  come  to  between  them 
was  this  :  that  Murdoch  should  abide  for  a  year 
longer,  that  is,  till  Lammastide ;  then  that  he 
should  no  longer  live  at  Ardoch-beag,  but  instead 
should  go  and  keep  the  sheep  on  Bac-M6r." 

"  On  Bac-M6r,  Phadric,"  I  interrupted,  "  for 
sure,  you  do  not  mean  our  Bac-M6r  ?  " 

"  For  sure  I  mean  no  other  :  Bac-M6r,  of  the 
Treshnish  Isles,  that  is  eleven  miles  north  of 
lona  and  a  long  four  north-west  of  Staffa ;  an* 
just  Bac-M6r  an'  no  other." 

"  Murdoch  would  be  near  home,  there." 

"Ay,  near,  an'  farther  away;  for  'tis  to  be 
farther  off  to  be  near  that  your  heart  loves  bu' 
ye  can't  get. 

"Well,  Murdoch  agreed  to  this,  but  he  did 
not  know  there  was  no  boat  on  the  island.  It 
was  all  very  well  in  the  summer.  The  herrin'- 
smacks  lay  off  Bac-M&r  or  Bac-Beag  many  a 
time;  and  he  could  see  them  mornin',  noon,  an' 
night;  an'  nigh  every  day  he  could  watch  the 
big  steamer  comin'  southward  down  the  Morn- 
ish  and  Treshnish  coasts  of  Mull,  and  stand  by 
for  an  hour  off  Staffa,  or  else  come  northward 


88  The  Judgment  o'  God. 

out  of  the  Sound  of  lona  round  the  Eilean  Ra- 
bach;  and  once  or  twice  a  week  he  saw  the 
Clansman  coming  or  going  from  Bunessan  in  the 
Ross  to  Scarnish  in  the  Isle  of  Tiree.  Maybe, 
too,  now  and  again  a  foreign  sloop  or  a  coast- 
ing schooner  would  sail  by ;  and  twice,  at  least, 
a  yacht  lay  off  the  wild  shore,  and  put  a  boat  in 
at  the  landing-place,  and  let  some  laughing  folk 
loose  upon  that  quiet  place.  The  first  time,  it  was 
a  steam-yacht,  owned  by  a  rich  foreigner,  either 
an  Englishman  or  an  American,  I  misremember 
now:  an'  he  spoke  to  Murdoch  as  though  he 
were  a  savage,  and  he  and  his  gay  folk  laughed 
when  my  brother  spoke  in  the  only  English  he 
had  (an'  sober  good  English  it  was),  an'  then 
he  shoves  some  money  into  his  hand,  as  though 
both  were  evil-doers  and  were  ashamed  to  be 
seen  doing  what  they  did. 

"'An'  what  is  this   for?'  said  my  brother. 

" '  O  it 's  for  yourself,  my  man,  to  drink  our 
health  with,'  answered  the  English  lord,  or 
whatever  he  was,  rudely. 

"Then  Murdoch  looked  at  him  and  his  quietly; 
an'  he  said, '  God  has  your  health  an'  my  health  in 
the  hollow  of  His  hand.  But  I  wish  you  well. 
Only  I  am  not  being  your  man  any  more  than  I 


The  Judgment  o'  God.  89 

am  for  calling  you  #/y  man  ;  an'  I  will  ask  you  to 
take  back  this  money  to  drink  with ;  nor  have  I 
any  need  for  money,  but  only  for  that  which  is 
free  to  all,  —  but  that  only  God  can  give.'  And 
with  that  the  foreign  people  went  away,  and 
laughed  less.  But  when  the  second  yacht  came, 
though  it  was  a  yawl  and  owned  by  a  Glasgow 
man  who  had  folk  in  the  west,  Murdoch  would 
not  come  down  to  the  shore,  but  lay  under  the 
shadow  of  a  rock  amid  his  sheep,  and  kept  his 
eyes  upon  the  sun  that  was  moving  west  out  of 
the  south. 

"  Well,  all  through  the  fine  months  Murdoch 
stayed  on  Bac-M6r,  and  thereafter  through  the 
early  winter.  The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  at 
the  New  Year.  On  Hogmanay  night  my  father 
was  drinking  hard,  and  nothing  would  serve  him 
but  he  must  borrow  Alec  Macarthur's  boat,  and 
that  he  and  our  mother  and  myself, and  Ian  Fin- 
lay  and  his  wife,  my  sister,  should  go  out  before 
the  quiet  south-wind  that  was  blowing,  and  see 
Murdoch  where  he  lay  sleeping  or  sat  dream- 
ing in  his  lonely  bothy.  And  truth,  we  went. 
It  was  a  white  sailing,  that  I  remember.  The 
moonshinings  ran  in  and  out  of  the  wavelets  like 
herrings  through  salmon  nets.  The  fire-flauchts, 


90  The  Judgment  o'  God. 

too,  went  speeding  about.  I  was  but  a  laddie 
then,  an'  I  noted  it  all ;  an'  the  sheet-lightning 
that  played  behind  the  cloudy  lift  in  the  nor'- 
west. 

"  But  when  we  got  to  Bac-M6r  there  was  no 
sign  of  Murdoch  at  the  bothy ;  no,  not  though 
we  called  high  and  low.  Then  my  father  and 
Ian  Finlay  went  to  look,  and  we  stayed  by  the 
peats.  When  they  came  back,  an  hour  later,  I 
saw  that  my  father  was  no  more  in  drink.  Hr 
had  the  same  look  in  his  eyes  as  Ronald 
McLean  had  that  day  last  winter  when  they  told 
him  his  bit  girlie  had  been  caught  by  the  small- 
pox in  Glasgow. 

"  I  could  not  hear,  or  I  could  not  make  out 
what  was  said;  but  I  know  that  we  all  got  into  the 
boat  again,  all  except  my  father.  And  he  stayed. 
And  next  day,  Ian  Finlay  and  Alec  Macarthur 
went  out  to  Bac-M6r  and  brought  him  back. 

"And  from  him  and  from  Ian  I  knew  all  there 
was  to  be  known.  It  was  a  hard  New  Year  for 
all,  and  since  that  day  till  a  night  of  which  I  will 
tell  you,  my  father  brooded  and  drank,  drank  and 
brooded,  and  my  mother  wept  through  the  winter 
gloamings  and  spent  the  night  starin'  into  the 
peats  wi1  her  knittin'  lyin'  on  her  lap. 


The  Judgment  o'  God.  91 

"For  when  they  had  gone  to  seek  Murdoch 
that  Hogmanay  night,  they  came  upon  him  away 
from  his  sheep.  But  this  was  what  they  saw. 
There  was  a  black  rock  that  stood  out  in  the 
moonshine,  with  the  water  all  about  it.  And  on 
this  rock  Murdoch  lay  naked,  and  laughing  wild. 
An'  every  now  and  then  he  would  lean  forward, 
and  stretch  his  arms  out,  an'  call  to  his  dearie. 
An'  at  last,  just  as  the  watchers,  shiverin'  wi' 
fear  an'  awe,  were  going  to  close  in  upon  him, 
they  saw  a  —  a  —  thing  —  come  out  o'  the  water. 
It  was  long  an'  dark,  an'  Ian  said  its  eyes  were 
like  clots  o'  blood ;  but  as  to  that  no  man  can 
say  yea  or  nay,  for  Ian  himself  admits  it  was  a 
seal. 

"  An'  this  thing  is  true,  an  ainm  an  Athar  /  they 
saw  the  dark  beast  o'  the  sea  creep  on  to  the 
rock  beside  Murdoch,  an'  lie  down  beside  him, 
and  let  him  clasp  an'  kiss  it.  An'  then  he  stood 
up,  and  laughed  till  the  skin  crept  on  those  who 
heard,  and  cried  out  on  his  dearie  and  on  a'  the 
dumb  things  o'  the  sea,  an' the  Wave-Haunter  an' 
the  grey  shadow ;  an'  he  raised  his  hands,  an' 
cursed  the  world  o'  men,  and  cried  out  to  God, 
'  Turn  your  face  to  your  own  airidk,  O  God,  art1 
may  rain  an1  storm  an1  snow  be  between  us  ! ' 


92  The  Judgment  o*  God. 

"  An'  wi'  that  Deirg,  his  collie,  could  bide  no 
more,  but  loupit  across  the  water,  and  was  on 
the  rock  beside  him,  wi'  his  fell  bristling  like  a 
hedge-rat.  For  both  the  naked  man  an'  the  wet 
gleamin'  beast,  a  great  she-seal  out  o'  the  north, 
turned  upon  Deirg,  an'  he  fought  for  his  life. 
But  what  could  the  puir  thing  do?  The  seal 
buried  her  fangs  in  his  shoulder,  at  last,  an' 
pinned  him  to  the  ground.  Then  Murdoch 
stooped,  an'  dragged  her  off,  an'  bent  down  an' 
tore  at  the  throat  o'  Deirg  wi'  his  own  teeth. 
Ay,  God's  truth  it  is  !  An'  when  the  collie  was 
stark,  he  took  him  up  by  the  hind  legs  an'  the 
tail,  an'  swung  him  round  an'  round  his  head, 
an'  whirled  him  into  the  sea,  where  he  fell  black 
in  a  white  splatch  o'  the  moon. 

"  An'  wi'  that,  Murdoch  slipped,  and  reeled 
backward  into  the  sea,  his  hands  gripping  at 
the  whirling  stars.  An'  the  thing  beside  him 
louped  after  him,  an'  my  father  an'  Ian  heard 
a  cry  an'  a  cryin'  that  made  their  hearts  sob. 
But  when  they  got  down  to  the  rock  they  saw 
nothing,  except  the  floating  body  o'  Deirg. 

"  Sure  it  was  a  weary  night  for  the  old  man, 
there  on  Bac-M6r  by  himself,  with  that  awful 
thing  that  had  happened.  He  stayed  there  to 


The  Judgment  o'  God.  93 

see  and  hear  what  might  be  seen  and  heard. 
But  nothing  he  heard,  nothing  saw.  It  was 
afterwards  that  he  heard  how  Donncha  Mac- 
Donald  was  on  Bac-M6r  three  days  before  this, 
and  how  Murdoch  had  told  him  he  was  in  love 
wi'  a  maighdeannmhara,  a  sea-maid. 

"  But  this  thing  has  to  be  known.  It  was  a 
month  later,  on  the  night  o'  the  full  moon,  that 
Ian  Finlay  and  Ian  Macarthur  and  Sheumais 
Macallum  were  upset  in  the  calm  water  inside 
the  Sound,  just  off  Port-na-Frang,  and  were  nigh 
drowned,  but  that  they  called  upon  God  and  the 
Son,  and  so  escaped  and  heard  no  more  the 
laughter  of  Murdoch  from  the  sea. 

"  And  at  midnight  my  father  heard  the  voice  of 
his  eldest  son  at  the  door ;  but  he  would  not  let 
him  in;  and  in  the  morning  he  found  his  boat 
broken  and  shred  in  splinters,  and  his  one  net 
all  torn.  An'  that  day  was  the  Sabbath ;  so 
being  a  holy  day  he  took  the  Scripture  with  him, 
an'  he  and  Neil  Morrison  the  minister,  having 
had  the  Bread  an'  Wine,  went  along  the  Sound 
in  a  boat,  following  a  shadow  in  the  water,  till 
they  came  to  Soa.  An'  there  Neil  Morrison 
read  the  Word  o'  God  to  the  seals  that  lay  baskin' 
in  the  sun ;  and  one,  a  female,  snarled  and 


94  The  Judgment  o'  God. 

showed  her  fangs ;  and  another,  a  black  one, 
lifted  its  head,  and  made  a  noise  that  was  not 
like  the  barking  of  any  seal,  but  was  as  the 
laughter  of  Murdoch  when  he  swung  the  dead 
body  of  Deirg. 

"  And  that  is  all  that  is  to  be  said.  And  silence 
is  best  now  between  you  and  any  other.  And 
no  man  knows  the  judgments  o*  God. 

"  And  that  is  all." 


II 

THE    HARPING    OF    CRAVETHEEN. 


THE 


Harping   of  Cravetheen. 


WHEN  Cormac,  that  was  known  throughout 
all  Northern  Eire*  as  Cormac  Conlingas,  Cormac 
the  son  of  Concobar  the  son  of  Nessa,  was  one 
of  the  ten  hostages  to  Conairy  Mor  for  the  lealty 
of  the  Ultonians,  he  was  loved  by  men  and 
women  because  of  his  strength,  his  valor,  and 
his  beauty. 

He  was  taller  than  the  tallest  of  his  nine  com- 
rades by  an  inch,  and  broader  by  two  inches 
than  the  broadest;  though  that  fellowship  of 
nine  was  of  the  tallest  and  broadest  men  among 
the  Ultonians,  who  were  the  greatest  warriors 
that  green  Banba,  as  Eire"  or  Erin  was  called  by 
the  bards  who  loved  her,  has  ever  seen. 

The  shenachies  sang  of  him  as  a  proud 
champion,  with  eyes  full  of  light  and  fire,  his 
countenance  broad  above  and  narrow  below, 
7 


98       The  Harping  of  Cravetheen. 

ruddy-faced,  with  hair  as  of  the  gold  of  the 
September  moon. 

The  commonalty  spoke  of  his  mighty  spear- 
thrust,  of  his  deft  sword-swing,  the  terror  of  his 
wrath,  of  the  fury  of  his  battle-lust,  of  his  laugh- 
ter and  light  joy,  and  the  singing  that  was  on 
his  lips  when  his  sword  had  the  silence  upon  it. 
No  man  dared  touch  "  Blue-Green,"  as  Cormac 
Conlingas  called  it,  —  the  "Whispering  Sword," 
as  it  was  named  among  his  fellows.  "Blue- 
Green,"  for  in  its  sweep  it  gleamed  blue-green 
as  the  leaping  levin,  whispered  whenever  it  was 
athirst,  and  a  red  draught  it  was  that  would 
quench  that  thirst,  and  no  other  draught  for  the 
drinking;  and  it  whispered  when  there  was  a  fer- 
ment of  the  red  blood  among  men  who  hated 
while  they  feared  the  Ultonians;  and  it  whis- 
pered whenever  a  shadow  dogged  the  shadow  of 
Cormac,  the  son  of  Concobar  the  son  of  Nessa. 
Therefore  it  was  that  of  all  who  desired  his  death, 
there  was  none  that  did  not  fear  the  doom-whis- 
per of  the  sword  that  had  been  forged  by  Len, 
the  Smith,  where  he  sits  and  works  forever  amid 
his  mist  of  rainbows.  Women  spoke  of  his 
strength  as  though  it  were  their  proud  beauty. 
He  had  the  way  of  the  sunlight  with  him,  they 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen.      99 

said.  And  of  the  sunfire,  added  one  ever,  be- 
low her  breath ;  and  that  was  Eilidh,  the  daughter 
of  Conn  Mac  Art  and  of  Dearduil,  the  daughter 
of  Somhairle,  the  Prince  of  the  Isles,  —  Eilidh, 
the  daughter  of  Dearduil  the  daughter  of  Morna, 
the  three  queens  of  beauty  in  the  three  genera- 
tions of  the  generations. 

She  was  not  of  the  Ultonians,  this  fair  Eilidh ; 
but  of  the  people  who  were  subject  to  Conairy 
M6r.  It  was  when  the  ten  hostages  abode  with 
the  Red  Prince  that  she  grew  faint  and  wan 
with  the  love-sickness.  Her  mother,  Dearduil, 
knew  who  the  man  was.  She  put  a  mirror  of 
polished  steel  against  the  mouth  of  the  girl  while 
she  slept,  and  then  it  was  that  she  saw  the  flames 
of  love  burning  a  red  heart  on  which  was  written 
in  white  fire,  —  "I  am  the  heart  of  Cormac,  the 
son  of  Concobar."  The  gladness  was  hers,  as 
well  as  the  fear.  Sure,  there  was  no  greater 
hero  than  Cormac  Conlingas ;  but  then  he  was 
an  Ultonian,  and  would  soon  be  for  going  away ; 
and  ill-pleased  would  Conairy  M6r  be  that  the 
beautiful  Eilidh,  who  was  his  ward  since  the 
death  of  Conn,  should  be  the  wife  of  one  of 
the  men  of  Concobar  Mac  Nessa  whoui  :n  his 
heart  he  hated. 


IOO     The  Harping  of  Cravetheen. 

There  was  a  warrior  there  called  Art  Mac  Art 
M6r.  Conairy  Mor  loved  him,  and  had  promised 
him  Eilidh.  One  day  this  man  came  to  the 
overlord,  and  said  this  thing,  — 

"  Is  she,  Eilidh,  to  be  hearing  the  lowing  of 
the  kine  that  are  upon  my  hills  ?  " 

"  That  is  so,  Art  Mac  Art." 

"  I  have  spoken  to  the  girl.  She  is  like  the 
wind  in  the  grass." 

"It  is  the  way  of  women.  Quest,  and  trace, 
and  you  shall  not  find.  But  say  '  Come,'  and 
they  will  come  ;  and  say  '  Do,'  and  they  obey." 

"  I  have  put  the  word  upon  her,  and  she  has 
laughed  at  me.  I  have  said  '  Come,'  and  she 
asked  me  if  the  running  wave  heard  the  voice 
of  yesterday's  wind.  I  have  said  '  Do,'  and  she 
called  to  me,  'Do  the  hills  nod  when  the  fox 
barks?'" 

"  What  is  the  thing  that  is  behind  your  lips, 
Art  Mac  Art  M6r?" 

"  This.  That  you  send  the  man  away  that  is 
the  cause  of  the  mischief  that  is  upon  Eilidh." 

"  Who  is  the  man  ?  " 

"  He  is  of  the  Hostages." 

Conairy  M6r  brooded  awhile.  Then  he 
stroked  his  beard,  brown-black  as  burn- water 
in  shadow;  and  laughed. 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen.     101 

"  Why  is  there  laughter  upon  you,  my  king  ?" 

"  Sure,  I  laugh  to  think  of  the  blood  of  a 
white  maid.  They  say  it  is  of  milk,  but  I  am 
thinking  it  must  be  the  milk  of  the  hero-women 
of  old  that  was  red  and  warm  as  the  stream  the 
White  Hound  that  courses  through  the  night 
swims  in.  And  that  blood  that  is  in  Eilidh  leads 
to  the  blood  of  heroes.  She  would  have  the 
weight  of  Cormac,  the  Yellow-haired,  on  her 
breast ! " 

"  His  blood  or  mine." 

The  king  kept  silence  for  a  time.  Then  he 
smiled,  and  that  boded  ill.  Then,  after  a  while, 
he  frowned,  and  that  was  not  so  ill. 

"Not  thine,  Art." 

"  And  if  not  mine,  what  of  Cormac  Mac 
Concobar  ? 

"  He  shall  go." 

"  Alone  ?  " 

«  Alone." 

And,  sure,  it  was  on  the  eve  of  that  day  that 
Dearduil  went  to  warn  Cormac  Conlingas,  and 
to  beg  him  to  leave  the  whiteness  of  the  snow 
without  a  red  stain. 

But  when  she  entered  his  sleeping-place  Eilidh 
was  there,  upon  the  deer-skins. 


IO2     The  Harping  of  Cravetheen. 

Dearduil  looked  for  long  before  she  spoke. 

"  By  what  is  in  your  eyes,  Eilidh  my  daughter 
this  is  not  the  first  time  you  have  come  to  Cor- 
mac  Conlingas  ?  " 

The  girl  laughed  low.  The  white  arms  of 
her  moved  through  the  gold  of  her  hair  like 
sickles  among  the  corn.  She  looked  at  Cormac. 
The  flame  that  was  in  her  eyes  was  bright  in 
his.  The  wife  of  Conn  turned  to  him. 

"No,"  he  said  gravely,  "it  is  not  the  first 
time." 

"  Has  the  seed  been  sown,  O  husbandman  ?  " 

"  The  seed  has  been  sown." 

"  It  is  death." 

"The  tide  flows,  the  tide  ebbs." 

"  Cormac,  there  will  be  two  dead  this  night 
if  Conairy  M6r  hears  this  thing.  And  even 
now  his  word  moves  against  you.  Do  you  love 
Eilidh?" 

Cormac  smiled  slightly,  but  made  no  answer. 

"If  you  love  her,  you  would  not  see  her 
slain." 

41  There  is  no  great  evil  in  being  slain,  Dear- 
duil-nic-Somhairle." 

"She  is  a  woman,  and  she  has  your  child 
below  her  heart." 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen.     103 

"  That  is  a  true  thing." 

"Will  you  save  her?" 

«•  If  she  will." 

"  Speak,  Eilidh." 

Then  the  terror  that  was  in  the  girl's  heart 
arose  and  moved  about  like  a  white  bewildered 
bird  in  the  dark.  She  knew  that  Dearduil  had 
spoken  out  of  her  heart.  She  knew  that  Art 
Mac  Art  M6r  was  in  this  evil.  She  knew  that 
death  was  near  for  Cormac,  and  near  for  her. 
The  limbs  that  had  trembled  with  love,  trembled 
now  with  the  breath  of  the  fear.  Suddenly  she 
drew  a  long  sobbing  sigh. 

"  Speak,  Eilidh." 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  wall. 

"  Speak,  Eilidh." 

"  I  will  speak.     Go,  Cormac  Conlingas." 

The  chief  of  the  Ultonians  started.  This 
doom  to  life  was  worse  to  him  than  the  death- 
doom.  An  angry  flame  burned  in  his  eyes. 
His  lip  curled. 

"  May  it  not  be  a  man-child  you  will  have, 
Eilidh  of  the  gold  hair,"  he  said  scornfully,  "  for 
it  would  be  an  ill  thing  for  a  son  of  Cormac 
Mac  Concobar  to  be  a  coward,  as  his  mother 
was,  and  to  fear  death  as  she  did,  though  never 
before  her  any  of  her  race." 


IO4     The  Harping  of  Cravetheen. 

And  with  that  he  turned  upon  his  heel,  and 
went  out. 

Cormac  Conlingas  had  not  gone  far  when  he 
met  Art  Mac  Art  Mor,  with  the  others. 

"  It  is  the  king's  word,"  said  Art,  simply. 

"  I  am  ready,"  answered  Cormac.  "  Is  it 
death  ? " 

"  Come ;  the  king  shall  tell  you." 

But  there  was  to  be  no  blood  that  night. 
Only,  on  the  morrow  the  hostages  were  nine. 
The  tenth  man  rode  slowly  north  eastward, 
against  the  graying  of  the  dawn. 

If,  in  the  heart  of  Cormac  Conlingas,  there 
was  sorrow  and  a  bitter  pain,  because  of  Eilidh, 
whom  he  loved,  and  from  whom  he  would  fain 
have  taken  the  harshness  of  his  word,  there  was, 
in  the  heart  of  Eilidh,  the  sound  as  of  trodden 
sods. 

That  day  it  was  worse  for  her. 

Conairy  Mor  came  to  her  himself.  Art  was 
at  his  right  hand.  The  king  asked  her  if  she 
would  give  her  troth  to  the  son  of  Art-M6r,  and, 
that  being  given,  if  she  would  be  his  wife. 

"That  cannot  be,"  she  said.  The  fear  that 
had  been  in  the  girl's  heart  was  dead  now.  The 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen.      105 

saying  of  Cormac  had  killed  it.  She  knew 
that,  like  her  ancestor,  the  mother  of  Somhairle, 
she  could,  if  need  be,  have  a  log  of  burning 
wood  against  her  breast  and  face  the  torture  as 
though  she  were  no  more  than  holding  a  dead 
child  there. 

"  And  for  why  cannot  it  be  ?  "  asked  Conairy 
Mor. 

"  For  it  is  not  Art's  child  that  I  carry  in  my 
womb,"  answered  Eilidh,  simply. 

The  king  gloomed.  Art  Mac  Art  put  his 
right  hand  to  the  dagger  at  his  silver-bossed 
leathern  belt. 

"  Is  it  a  wanton  that  you  are  ?  " 

"  No  :  by  my  mother's  truth,  and  the  mother 
of  my  mother.  I  love  another  man  than  Art 
Mac  Art  Mor,  and  that  man  loves  me,  and  I  am 
his." 

"  Who  is  this  man  ?  " 

"  His  name  is  in  my  heart  only." 

"  I  will  ask  you  three  things,  Eilidh,  daughter 
of  Dearduil.  Is  the  man  one  of  your  race?  is 
he  of  noble  blood  ?  is  he  fit  to  wed  the  king's 
ward  ?  " 

"  He  is  more  fit  to  wed  the  king's  ward 
than  any  man  in  Eire1.  He  is  of  noble  blood, 


106     The  Harping  of  Cravetheen. 

and  himself  the  son  of  a  king.  But  he  is  an 
Ultonian." 

"  Thou  hast  said.  It  is  Cormac  Mac  Conco- 
bar  Mac  Nessa." 

"  It  is  Cormac  Conlingas." 

With  a  loud  laugh  Art  Mac  Art  strode  for- 
ward. He  raised  his  hand  and  flung  it  across 
the  face  of  the  girl. 

"  Art  thou  his  tenth  or  his  hundredth  ?  Well, 
I  would  not  have  you  now  as  a  serving-wench." 

Once  more  the  king  gloomed.  It  went  ill 
with  him,  that  sight  of  a  man  striking  a  woman, 
howsoever  lightly. 

"  Art,  I  have  slain  a  better  man  than  you,  for 
a  thing  less  worthy  than  that.  Take  heed." 

The  man  frowned,  with  the  red  light  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Will  you  do  as  you  said,  O  king?  " 

«  No,  not  now.  Eilidh,  that  blow  has  saved 
you.  I  was  going  to  let  Art  have  his  way  of 
you,  and  then  do  with  you  what  he  willed,  servi- 
tude or  death.  But  now  you  are  free  of  him. 
Only  this  thing  I  say;  no  Ultonian  shall  ever 
take  you  in  his  arms.  You  shall  wed  Crave- 
theen, the  step-brother  of  Art." 

"  Cravetheen  the  Harper?" 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen.     107 

"  Even  so." 

"He  is  old,  and  is  neither  comely  nor  gra- 
cious." 

"  There  is  no  age  upon  him  that  a  maid  need 
mock  at ;  and  he  is  gracious  enough  to  those 
who  do  not  cross  him  ;  and  he  has  the  mouth  of 
honey,  he  has,  and,  if  not  as  comely  as  Cormac 
Conlingas,  is  yet  fair  to  see." 

"But  —  " 

"  I  have  said." 

And  so  it  was.  Cravetheen  took  Eilidh  to 
wife.  But  he  left  the  great  Dun  of  Conairy 
Mor  and  went  to  live  in  his  own  dun  in  the 
forest  that  clothed  the  frontiers  of  the  land  of 
the  Ultonians. 

He  took  his  harp  that  night  when  for  the 
first  time  she  lay  upon  the  deerskins  in  his  dun. 
and  he  played  a  wild  air.  Eilidh  listened, 
The  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  Then  deep 
shadows  darkened  them.  Then  she  clenched 
her  hands  till  the  nails  drew  blood.  At  last  she 
lay  with  her  face  to  the  wall,  trembling. 

For  Cravetheen  was  a  harper  that  had  been 
taught  by  a  Green  Hunter  on  the  slopes  of 


io8     The  Harping  of  Cravetheen. 

Sliav-Sheean.  He  could  say  that  in  music  that 
other  men  could  scarce  say  aright  in  words. 

And  when  he  had  ended  that  night  he  went 
up  to  his  wife. 

"  No,  Eilidh,  for  all  you  are  so  white  and  soft, 
and  for  all  the  sweet  ways  of  you,  I  shall  not  be 
laying  my  heart  upon  yours  this  night,  nor  for 
many  nights.  But  a  day  shall  come  when  I 
will  be  playing  you  a  marriage  song.  But  be- 
fore that  day  I  will  play  to  you  twice."  "  And 
beware  the  third  playing  "  said  his  old  mother, 
who  sat  before  the  smouldering  logs,  crooning 
and  muttering. 

As  for  the  second  playing ;  that  was  not  till 
months  later.  It  was  at  the  set  of  the  sun  that 
had  shone  on  the  birthing  of  the  child  of  Eilidh 
and  Cormac  Conlingas. 

All  through  the  soundless  labour  of  the  woman, 
for  she  had  the  pride  of  pride,  Cravetheen  the 
Harper  played.  What  he  played  was  that  the 
child  might  be  born  dead.  Eilidh  knew  this, 
and  gave  it  the  breath  straight  from  her  heart. 
"  My  pulse  to  you,"  she  whispered  between  her 
low  sobs.  Then  Cravetheen  played  that  it 
might  be  born  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb.  But 
Eilidh  knew  this,  and  she  whispered  to  the  soul 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen.     109 

that  was  behind  her  eyes,  Give  it  light;  and  to 
the  soul  that  was  listening  behind  her  ears, 
Give  it  hearing :  and  to  the  soul  whose  silence 
was  beneath  her  silence,  Give  it  speech. 

And  so  the  child  was  born ;  and  it  was  a 
man-child,  and  fair  to  see.  ^ 

When  the  swoon  was  upon  Eilidh,  Grave- 
theen  ceased  from  his  harping.  He  rose,  and 
looked  upon  the  woman.  Then  he  lifted  the 
child,  and  laid  it  on  a  doeskin  in  the  sunlight, 
on  a  green  place,  that  was  the  meeting-place 
of  the  moonshine  dancers.  Then  he  lifted  his 
harp  again,  and  again  played. 

At  the  first  playing,  the  birds  ceased  from 
singing:  there  was  silence  amid  the  boughs. 
At  the  second,  the  leaves  ceased  from  rustling : 
there  was  silence  on  the  branches.  At  the 
third,  the  hare  leapt  no  more,  the  fox  blinked 
with  sleep,  the  wolf  lay  down.  At  the  fourth, 
and  fifth,  and  sixth,  the  wind  folded  its  wings 
like  a  great  bird,  the  wood-breeze  crept  beneath 
the  bracken  and  fell  asleep,  the  earth  sighed 
and  was  still.  There  was  silence  there,  — for 
sure,  silence  everywhere,  as  of  sleep. 

At  the  seventh  playing  the  quiet  people  came 
out  upon  the  green  place.  They  were  small 


no    The  Harping  of  Cravetheen. 

and  dainty,  clad  in  green  with  small,  white 
faces  ;  just  like  lilies-of-the-valley  they  were. 

They  laughed  low  among  themselves,  and 
some  clapped  their  hands.  One  climbed  a 
thistle,  and  swung  round  and  round  till  he  fell 
on  his  back  with  a  thud,  like  the  fall  of  a  dew- 
drop,  and  cried  pitifully.  There  was  no  peace 
till  a  duinshee  took  him  by  a  green  leg  and 
shoved  him  down  a  hole  in  the  grass  and 
stopped  it  with  a  dandelion. 

Then  one  among  them,  with  a  scarlet  robe 
and  a  green  cap  with  a  thread  of  thistledown 
waving  from  it  like  a  plume,  and  with  his  wee, 
wee  eyes  aflame,  stepped  forward,  and  began  to 
play  on  a  little  harp  made  of  a  bird-bone  with 
three  gossamer-films  for  strings.  And  the  wild 
air  that  he  played  and  the  songs  that  he  sang 
were  those  fonnsheen  that  few  hear  now,  but 
that  those  who  do  hear  know  to  be  sweeter  than 
the  sorrow  of  joy. 

Suddenly  Cravetheen  ceased  playing,  and 
then  there  was  silence  with  the  Green  Harper 
also. 

All  of  the  hillside-folk  stood  still.  When  an 
eddy  of  air  moved  along  the  grass  they  wavered 
to  and  fro  like  reeds  with  the  coolness  at 
their  feet 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen.     in 

Then  the  Green  Harper  threw  aside  his  scarlet 
cloak  and  his  green  cap,  and  the  hair  of  him 
was  white  and  flowing  as  the  canna.  He  broke 
the  three  threads  of  gossamer,  and  flung  away 
the  bird-bone  harp.  Then  he  drew  a  wee  bit 
reed  from  his  waist-band  that  was  made  of 
beaten  gold,  and  put  it  to  his  lips,  and  began 
to  play.  And  what  he  played  was  so  passing 
sweet  that  Cravetheen  went  into  a  dream,  and 
played  the  same  wild  air,  and  he  not  knowing 
it,  nor  any  man. 

It  was  with  that  that  the  soul  of  the  child 
heard  the  elfin-music,  and  came  out.  Sure,  it 
is  a  hard  thing  for  the  naked  spirit  to  come 
away  from  its  warm  home  of  the  flesh,  with  the 
blood  coming  and  going  forever  like  a  mother's 
hand,  warm  and  soft.  But  to  the  playing  of 
Cravetheen  and  the  Green  Harper  there  was  no 
denying.  The  soul  came  forth,  and  stood  with 
great  frightened  eyes. 

"Shrink!  Shrink/  Shrink /"  cried  all  the 
quiet  people,  and,  as  they  cried,  the  human 
spirit  shrank  so  as  to  be  at  one  with  them. 

Then,  as  it  seemed,  two  shining  white  flowers 
—  for  they  were  bonnie,  bonnie  —  stepped  for- 
ward and  took  the  human  by  the  hand,  and  led 


112     The  Harping  of  Cravetheen. 

it  away.  And  as  they  went,  the  others  followed, 
all  singing  a  glad  song,  that  fell  strange  and 
faint  upon  the  ear  of  Cravetheen.  All  passed 
into  the  hillside,  save  the  Green  Harper,  who 
stopped  awhile,  playing  and  playing  and  play- 
ing, till  Cravetheen  dreamed  he  was  Alldai,  the 
God  of  Gods,  and  that  the  sun  was  his  bride, 
and  the  moon  his  paramour,  and  the  stars  his 
children  and  the  joys  that  were  before  him. 
Then  he,  too,  passed. 

With  that,  Cravetheen  came  out  of  his 
trance,  and  rubbed  his  eyes  as  a  man  startled 
from  sleep. 

He  looked  at  the  child.  It  would  be  a 
changeling  now,  he  knew.  But  when  he  looked 
again  he  saw  that  it  was  dead. 

So  he  called  to  Gealcas,  that  was  his  mother, 
and  gave  her  the  body. 

"  Take  that  to  Eilidh,"  he  said,  "and  tell  her 
that  this  is  the  second  playing  ;  and  that  I  will 
be  playing  once  again,  before  it's  breast  to 
breast  with  us." 

And  these  were  the  words  that  Gealcas  said 
to  Eilidh,  who  in  her  heart  cursed  Cravetheen, 
and  mocked  his  cruel  patience,  and  longed  for 
Cormac  of  the  Yellow  Hair,  and  cared  not 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen.     113 

for  all  the  harping  that  Cravetheen  could  da 
now. 

It  was  in  the  Month  of  the  White  Flowers 
that  Cormac  Conlingas  came  again. 

He  was  in  the  Southland  when  news  reached 
him  that  his  father,  Concobar  Mac  Nessa,  was 
dead.  He  knew  that  if  he  were  not  speedily  in 
Ulster,  the  Ultonians  might  not  grant  him  the 
Ard-Reeship.  He,  surely,  and  no  other,  should 
be  Ard-Ree  after  Concobar ;  yet  there  was  one 
other  who  might  well  become  overlord  of  the 
Ultonians  in  his  place,  were  he  not  swift  with 
word  and  act. 

So  swift  was  he  that  he  mounted  and  rode 
away  from  his  fellows  without  taking  with  him 
the  famous  Spear  of  Pisarr,  which  was  a  terror 
in  battle.  This  was  that  fiery,  living  spear, 
wrought  by  the  son  of  Turenn,  and  won  out  of 
Eire"  by  the  god  Lu  Lam-fdda.  In  battle  it 
flew  hither  and  thither,  a  live  thing. 

He  rode  from  noon  to  within  an  hour  of  the 
setting  of  the  sun.  Then  he  saw  a  long,  green 
hill  rise  like  a  pine-cone  out  of  the  wood,  bossed 
with  still-standing  stones  of  an  ancient  ruined 
dun.  Against  it  a  blue  column  of  smoke  trailed. 
8 


114    The  Harping  of  Cravetheen. 

Cormac  knew  now  where  he  was.  Word  had 
come  to  him  recently  from  Eilidh  herself. 

He  drew  rein,  and  stared  awhile.  Then  he 
smiled;  then  once  more  he  gloomed,  and  his 
eyes  were  heavy  with  the  shadow  of  that  gloom. 

It  was  then  that  he  drew  "  Blue-Green  "  from 
its  sheath,  and  listened.  There  was  a  faint 
murmur  along  the  blade,  as  of  gnats  above  a 
pool ;  but  there  was  no  whispering. 

Once  more  he  smiled. 

"  It  will  be  for  the  happening,"  he  murmured. 
Then,  leaning  back,  he  sang  this  Rune  to 
Eilidh. 

Oime1,  Oim6,  Woman  of  the  white  breasts,  Eilidh ; 
Woman  of  the  golden  hair,  and  lips  of  the  red,  red  rowan  1 
Dime,  O-rJ,  Oim6 1 

Where  is  the  swan  that  is  whiter,  with  breast  more  soft, 
Or  the  wave  on   the  sea  that   moves  as  thou  movest 
Eilidh  — 

Oime',  a-ro;  Oim6,  a-rb! 

It  is  the  marrow  in  my  bones  that   is  aching,  aching, 

Eilidh; 
It  is  the  blood  in  my  body  that  is  a  bitter,  wild  tide 

Oime! 

O-ri,  O-hion,  O-ri,  arone  I 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen.     115 

Is  it  the  heart  of  thee  calling  that  I  am  hearing,  Eilidh, 
Or  the  wind  in  the  wood,  or  the  beating  of  the  sea,  Eilidh, 
Or  the  beating  of  the  sea  ? 

Shttle,  shule  agrbh,  shule  agrhh,  shule  agrbh,  Shule  ! 
Heart  of  me,  move  to  me  1  move  to  me '  heart  of  me,  Eilidh, 
Eilidh, 

Move  to  me ! 

Ah,  let  the  wild  hawk  take  it,  the  name  of  me,  Cormac 

Conlingas, 
Take  it  and  tear  at  thy  heart  with  it,  heart  that  of  old  was 

so  hot  with  it, 

Eilidh,  Eilidh,  o-ri,  Eilidh,  Eilidh  1 

And  the  last  words  of  that  song  were  so  loud 
and  clear  —  loud  and  clear  as  the  voice  of  the 
war-horn  —  that  Eilidh  heard.  The  heart  of 
her  leapt,  the  breast  of  her  heaved,  the  pulses 
danced  in  the  surge  of  the  blood.  Once  more 
it  was  with  her  as  though  she  were  with  child 
by  Cormac  Conlingas.  She  bade  the  old  mo- 
ther of  Cravetheen  and  all  who  abode  in  the 
dun  to  remain  within,  and  not  one  to  put  the 
gaze  upon  the  grtanan,  her  own  place  there,  or 
upon  whom  she  should  lead  to  it.  Then  she 
went  forth  to  meet  Cormac,  glad  to  think  of 
Cravetheen  far  thence  on  the  hunting,  and  not 
to  be  back  again  till  the  third  day. 


Il6     The  Harping  of  Cravetheen. 

It  was  a  meeting  of  two  waves,  that.  Each 
was  lost  in  the  other.  Then,  after  long  looking 
in  the  eyes,  and  with  the  words  aswoon  on  the 
lips,  they  moved  hand  in  hand  towards  the  dun. 

And  as  they  moved,  the  Whispering  of  the 
Sword  made  a  sound  like  the  going  of  wind 
through  grass. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  Eilidh,  her  eyes  large. 

"  It  is  the  wind  in  the  grass,"  Cormac  answered. 

And  as  they  entered  the  dun  the  Whispering 
of  the  Sword  made  a  confused  murmur  as  of  the 
wind  among  swaying  pines. 

"What  is  that?"  Eilidh  asked,  fear  in  her 
eyes. 

"  It  is  the  wind  in  the  forest,"  said  Cormac. 

But  when,  after  he  had  eaten  and  drunken, 
they  went  up  to  the  Grianan,  and  lay  down  upon 
the  deer-skins,  the  Whispering  of  the  Sword 
was  so  loud  that  it  was  as  the  surf  of  the  sea  in 
a  wild  wind. 

"What  is  that  ?  "  cried  Eilidh,  with  a  sob  in 
her  throat. 

"  It  is  the  wind  on  the  sea,"  Cormac  said,  his 
voice  hoarse  and  low. 

"  There  is  no  sea  within  three  days'  march," 
whispered  Eilidh,  as  she  clasped  her  hands. 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen.     117 

But  Cormac  said  nothing.  And,  now,  the 
Sword  was  silent  also. 

It  was  that  night  that  Cravetheen  returned. 
He  was  playing  one  of  the  fonnsheen  he  knew, 
as  he  came  through  the  wood  in  the  moonlight ; 
for  in  the  hunting  of  a  stag  he  had  made  a  great 
circle  and  was  now  near  Dunchraig  again,  Dun- 
chraig  that  was  his  dun.  But  he  had  left  his 
horse  with  his  kindred  in  the  valley,  and  had 
come  afoot  through  the  wood. 

He  stopped  as  he  was  nigh  upon  the  rocks 
against  which  the  dun  was  built.  He  saw  the 
blackness  of  the  shadow  of  a  living  thing. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  It  is  I,  Murtagh  Lam-Rossa,"  —  and  with 
that  a  man  out  of  the  dun  came  forward  slowly 
and  hesitatingly.  He  was  a  man  who  hated 
Eilidh,  because  she  had  put  him  to  shame. 

Cravetheen  looked  at  him. 

"  I  am  waiting,"  he  said. 

Still  the  man  hesitated. 

"I  am  waiting,  Murtagh  Lam-Rossa." 

"  This  is  a  bitter  thing  I  have  to  say.  I  was 
on  my  way  for  the  telling." 

"  It  is  of  Eilidh  that  is  my  wife  ?  " 


Ii8     The  Harping  of  Cravetheen. 

"  You  have  said  it.M 

"  Speak." 

"  She  does  not  sleep  alone  in  the  Grianan,  and 
there  is  no  one  of  the  dun  who  is  there  with 
her." 

"Who  is  there?" 

"  A  man." 

Cravetheen  drew  a  long  breath.  His  hand 
went  to  the  dagger  at  his  belt. 

"  What  man  ?  " 

"  Cormac  mac  Concobar,  that  is  called 
Cormac  Conlingas." 

Again  Cravetheen  drew  a  deep  breath,  and 
the  blood  was  on  his  lip. 

"  You  are  knowing  this  thing  for  sure  ?  " 

"  I  am  knowing  it." 

"  That  is  what  no  other  man  shall  do,"  and 
with  that  Cravetheen  flashed  the  dagger  in  the 
moonshine,  and  thrust  it  with  a  surging  sound 
into  the  heart  of  Murtagh  Lam-Rossa. 

With  a  groan  the  man  sank.  His  white  hands 
wandered  among  the  fibrous  dust  of  the  pine- 
needles.  His  face  was  as  a  livid  wave  with  the 
foam  of  death  on  it. 

Cravetheen  looked  at  the  froth  on  his  lips  ;  it 
was  like  that  of  the  sped  deer.  He  looked  at 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen.     119 

the  bubbles  about  the  hilt  of  the  knife ;  they 
were  as  the  yeast  of  cranberries. 

"  That  is  the  sure  way  of  silence,"  he  said ; 
and  he  moved  on,  and  thought  no  more  of  the 
man. 

When  he  came  nigh  the  dun  he  stood  a  long 
while  in  thought.  He  could  not  reach  the 
Grianan,  he  knew.  Swords  and  spears  for 
Eilidh,  before  then,  mayhap ;  and,  if  not,  there 
was  Cormac  Conlingas,  —  and  not  Cormac  only, 
but  the  Sword  "  Blue-Green,"  and  the  Spear 
"  Pisarr." 

But  a  thought  drove  into  his  mind  as  a  wind 
into  a  corrie.  He  put  back  his  sword,  and  took 
his  harp  again.  "  It  is  the  third  playing,"  he 
muttered  with  a  grim  smile.  Then  once  more 
he  stood  on  the  green  rath  of  the  quiet  people, 
and  played  \hzfonnsheen  till  they  heard.  And 
when  the  old  elfin  harper  was  come,  Cravetheen 
played  the  Tune  of  the  Asking. 

"  What  will  you  be  wanting,  Cravetheena  Mac 
Rory,"  asked  the  Green  Harper. 

"  The  Tune  of  the  Trancing  Sleep,  green  prince 
of  the  hill." 

"  Sure,  you  shall  have  it :  "  and  with  that  the 
Green  Harper  gave  the  magic  melody,  so  that  not 


I2O     The  Harping  of  Cravetheen. 

a  leaf  stirred,  not  a  bird  moved,  and  even  the 
dew  ceased  to  fall. 

Then  Cravetheen  took  his  harp  and  played. 

The  dogs  in  the  dun  rose,  but  none  howled. 
Then  all  lay  down  nosing  their  outstretched 
paws.  Thrice  the  stallions  in  the  rear  of  the 
dun  put  back  their  ears,  but  no  neighing  was 
on  their  curled  lips.  The  mares  whimpered,  and 
then  stood  with  heads  low,  asleep.  The  armed 
men  did  not  awake,  but  slumbered  deep.  The 
women  dreamed  into  the  darkness  where  no 
dream  is.  The  old  mother  of  Cravetheen 
stirred,  crooned  wearily,  bowed  her  gray  head 
and  was  in  Tir-nan-og  again,  walking  with 
Rory  mac  Rory  that  loved  her,  him  that  was 
slain  with  a  spear  and  a  sword  long,  long  ago. 

Only  Eilidh  and  Cormac  Conlingas  were 
waking.  Sweet  was  that  wild  harping  against 
their  ears. 

"  It  will  be  the  Green  Harper  himself,' 
whispered  Cormac,  drowsy  with  the  sleep  that 
was  upon  him. 

"  It  will  be  the  harping  of  Cravetheen  I  am 
thinking,"  said  Eilidh,  with  a  low  sigh,  yet  as 
though  that  thing  were  nothing  to  her.  But 
Cormac  did  not  hear,  for  he  was  asleep. 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen.     121 

"I  see  nine  shadows  leaping  upon  the  wall," 
murmured  Eilidh,  while  her  heart  beat  and  her 
limbs  lay  in  chains. 

"'  .  .  .  Move  to  me,  heart  of  me,  Eilidh,  Eilidh, 
Move  to  mej  " 

sang  Cormac,  in  a  slow,  chanting  whisper. 

"  I  see  nine  hounds  leaping  into  the  dun, " 
Eilidh  cried,  though  none  heard. 

Cormac  smiled  in  his  sleep. 

"  Ah,  ah,  I  see  nine  red  phantoms  leaping 
into  the  room ! "  screamed  Eilidh ;  but  none 
heard. 

Cormac  smiled  in  his  sleep. 

And  then  it  was  that  the  nine  red  flames  grew 
ninefold,  and  the  whole  dun  was  wrapt  in  flame. 

For  this  was  the  doing  of  Cravetheen  the 
Harper.  All  there  died  in  the  flame.  That  was 
the  end  of  Eilidh,  that  was  so  fair.  She  laughed 
the  pain  away,  and  died.  And  Cormac  smiled, 
and  as  the  flame  leapt  on  his  breast  he  muttered, 
"  Ah,  hot  heart  of  Eilidh  !  —  heart  to  me  — 
move  to  me  /  "  And  he  died. 

There  was  no  dun,  and  there  were  no  folk, 
and  no  stallions  and  mares,  and  no  baying 


122     The  Harping  of  Cravetheen. 

hounds,  when  Cravetheen  ceased  from  the 
playing,  —  but  only  ashes. 

He  looked  at  them  till  dawn.  Then  he  rose, 
and  he  broke  his  harp.  Northward  he  went,  to 
tell  the  Ultonians  that  thing,  and  to  die  the 
death. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  Cormac  the  Hero, 
Cormac  the  son  of  Concobar  the  son  of  Nessa, 
that  was  called  Cormac  Conlingas. 


Ill 

TRAGIC    LANDSCAPES. 


Tragic  Landscapes, 
i. 

THE  TEMPEST. 

THE  forest  undulated  across  the  land  in 
vast  black-green  billows.  Their  sombre  soli- 
tudes held  no  light.  The  sky  was  of  a  uniform 
grey,  a  dull  metallic  hue  such  as  the  sea  takes 
when  a  rainy  wind  comes  out  of  the  east. 
There  was  not  a  break  in  the  appalling  mo- 
notony. 

To  the  north  rose  a  chain  of  mountains. 
Connecting  one  to  another,  were  serrated 
scaurs,  or  cleft,  tortured,  and  precipitous  ridges. 
The  wild-stag  had  his  sanctuary  here  ;  here  were 
reared  the  young  of  the  osprey,  the  raven,  the 
kestrel,  and  the  corbie.  On  the  extreme  heights 
the  eagles  called  from  their  eyries  at  sunrise ;  at 


126  Tragic  Landscapes. 

sundown  they  might  be  seen  whirling  like  mi- 
nute discs  around  the  flaming  peaks. 

An  absolute  silence  prevailed.  At  long 
intervals  there  was  the  restless  mewing  of  a 
wind-eddy,  baffled  among  the  remote  corries. 
Sometimes,  far  beneath  and  beyond,  in  the  mid- 
most depths  of  the  forest,  a  sound,  as  of  the 
flowing  tide  at  an  immeasurable  distance,  rose, 
sighed  through  the  grey  silences,  and  sank  into 
their  drowning  depths. 

At  noon,  a  slight  stir  was, visible  here  and 
there.  Two  crows  drifted  inky-black  against 
the  slate-grey  firmament.  A}  kestrel,  hovering 
over  a  rocky  wilderness,  screamed,  and  with 
a  sudden  slant  cut  the  heavy  air,  skimmed 
the  ground,  breasted  the  extreme  summits  of 
the  pines,  and  sailed  slowly  westward,  silent, 
apparently  motionless,  till  absorbed  into  the 
gloom.  A  slight  mist  rose  from  a  stagnant 
place.  On  a  black  moorland  tract,  miles  away 
from  where  the  forest  began,  two  small,  gaunt 
creatures,  human  males,  stooped  continually, 
tearing  at  the  peaty  soil. 

By  the  fourth  hour  from  noon,  there  was 
nothing  audible ;  not  a  thing  visible,  save  the 
black-gloom  overhead,  the  green-gloom  of  the 


Tragic  Landscapes.  127 

vast  pine-forest,  the  grey  sterility  of  the  hills,  to 
the  north. 

Towards  the  fifth  hour,  a  sickly  white  flame 
darted  forkedly  out  of  the  slate-hued  sky  to  the 
northwest.  There  was  no  wind,  no  stir  of  any 
kind,  following.  The  same  breathless  silence 
brooded  everywhere. 

Close  upon  the  sixth  hour  a  strange  shivering 
went  through  a  portion  of  the  forest.  It  was  as 
though  the  flank  of  a  monster  quivered.  A  con- 
fused rustling  arose,  ebbed,  died  away.  Thrice 
at  long  intervals,  the  narrow,  jagged  flame 
lunged  and  thrust,  as  a  needle  thridding  the  two 
horizons.  At  a  vast  distance  a  wail,  a  murmur, 
a  faint  vanishing  cry,  might  be  heard,  like  the 
humming  of  a  gnat.  It  was  the  wind,  tearing 
and  lashing  the  extreme  frontiers,  and  screaming 
in  its  blind  fury. 

A  raven  came  flying  rapidly  out  of  the  west. 
Again  and  again  in  its  undeviating  flight  its 
hoarse  croak  re-echoed  as  though  it  fell  clanging 
from  ledge  to  brazen  ledge.  At  an  immense 
height,  three  eagles,  no  larger  than  three  pin- 
points, winging  their  way  at  terrific  speed, 
seemed  to  crawl  like  ants  along  the  blank 
slope  of  a  summitless  and  endless  wall. 


128  Tragic  Landscapes. 

In  the  southwest  the  greyness  became 
involved.  Dark  masses  bulged  forward.  A 
gigantic  hand  appeared  to  mould  them  from 
behind.  The  ponderous  avalanches  of  rain 
were  suspended,  lifted,  whirled  this  way  and 
that,  fused,  divided,  and  swung  low  over  the 
earth  like  horrible  balloons  of  death. 

Furtive  eddies  of  wind  moved  stealthily  among 
the  forest-trees.  The  pines  were  motionless, 
though  a  thin  song  ascended  spirally  the  colum- 
nar boles ;  but  the  near  beeches  were  flooded  with 
innumerable  green  wavelets  of  unquiet  light. 
A  constant  tremor  lived  suspensive  in  ever- 
birk,  in  every  rowan.  On  the  hither  frontier  of 
the  pines  a  few  scattered  oaks  lifted  their 
upper  boughs,  lifted  and  lapsed,  slowly  lifted 
again  and  slowly  lapsed.  These  were  silent, 
though  a  confused  murmur  as  of  bewildered 
bees  came  from  the  foliage  midway  and  beneath. 
Wan  green  tongues  of  air  licked  the  fronds  of 
the  myriad  bracken.  Swift  arrows  of  wind, 
narrow  as  reeds,  darted  through  the  fern  and 
over  the  patches  of  grass,  leaving  for  a  moment 
a  wake  of  white  light.  By  a  pool  the  bulrushes 
seemed  to  strain  their  tufty  heads  one  way, 
listening ;  the  tall,  slim  fairy-lances  beside  them 
continually  trembled. 


Tragic  Landscapes.  129 

Suddenly  there  was  an  obscure  noise  upon  the 
hills.  Far  off,  a  linn  roared  hoarsely,  whose 
voice  had  been  muffled  before.  Many  streams 
and  hill-torrents  called.  Then  the  mountain- 
wind  came  rushing  down  the  strath,  with  inco- 
herent shouts  and  a  confused  tumult  of  tidings. 
Every  green  thing  moved  one  way,  or  stood 
back  upon  itself  as  a  javelin-thrower.  In  the 
tragic  silence  of  the  forest  and  the  moorland 
the  pulse  of  the  earth  beat  slowly,  heavily.  A 
suffocating  grip  was  at  the  brown  heart. 

But  the  moment  the  hill-wind  dashed  through 
the  swaying  rowans  and  beeches,  and  leaped  into 
the  forest,  a  hurricane  of  cries  arose.  Every 
tree  called  to  its  neighbour;  each  pine  shouted, 
screamed,  moaned,  or  chanted  a  wild  song ;  the 
more  ancient  lifted  a  deep  voice,  mocking  and 
defiant.  For  now  they  knew  what  was  coming. 

The  sea-tempest  was  climbing  up  over  the 
back  of  the  sun,  and  had  already,  with  rolling 
thunders  and  frightful  sulphurous  blasts,  with 
flame  of  many  lightnings  and  vast  volumes  of 
cloud  holding  seas  of  rain  and  gravelly  aval- 
anches of  hail,  attacked,  prostrated,  trampled 
upon,  mutilated,  slain  and  twice  slain,  the  far- 
off  battalions  of  the  forest !  This  was  what  the 
9 


130  Tragic  Landscapes. 

herald  of  the  hills  proclaimed,  as  with  panic 
haste  he  leaped  through  the  woods  screaming 
wild  warnings  as  he  went. 

For  leagues  and  leagues  he  swept  onward, 
then,  suddenly  swerving,  raced  up  a  rock- 
bastioned  height  that  rose  in  the  forest  For 
a  while  he  swung  suspensive,  then,  swaying 
blindly,  fell  back  stumbling,  and,  as  one  delir- 
ious, staggered  to  the  forest  again,  and  once 
more  flew  like  a  flying  deer,  though  no  longer 
forward  but  by  the  way  he  had  come. 

"  The  Tempest !  The  Tempest !  "  he 
screamed:  "The  Tempest  conies!" 

Soon  all  the  forest  knew  what  he  had  seen. 
Distant  lines  of  great  trees  were  being  mowed 
down  as  by  a  scythe ;  gigantic  pines  were  being 
torn  from  the  ground  and  hurled  hither  and 
thither  ;  the  Black  Loch  had  become  a  flood  ; 
the  river  had  swollen  into  a  frightful  spate,  and 
raged  and  ravened  like  a  beast  of  prey.  He  had 
seen  cattle  fall,  slain  by  lightning  ;  a  stag  had 
crashed  downwards  as  he  leapt  from  boulder  to 
boulder;  the  huts  of  some  humans  had  been 
laid  low,  and  the  sprawling  creatures  beneath 
been  killed  or  mutilated;  sheep  had  been 
dashed  up  against  stone-dykes  and  left  lifeless- 


Tragic  Landscapes.  131 

The  air  in  places  was  thick  and  dark  with 
whirling  grouse,  snipe,  wild-doves,  lapwings, 
crows,  and  a  dust  of  small  birds. 

A  moan  went  up  from  the  forest,  —  a  new 
sound,  horrible,  full  of  awe,  of  terror,  of  despair. 
In  the  blank  grey  hollows  of  the  mountains  to 
the  north  the  echo  of  this  was  as  though  the 
Grave  were  opened,  and  the  Dead  moaned. 

Young  and  old  moved  near  to  each  other, 
with  clinging  boughs,  and  tremulous  sprays  and 
branches.  The  fluttering  leaves  made  a  con- 
fused babble  of  tongues.  The  males  swirled 
their  upper  boughs  continuously,  inclining  their 
bodies  now  this  way  and  now  that.  The  ancient 
pines  spread  their  boles  as  far  as  they  could 
reach,  murmuring  low  to  their  green  offspring, 
and  to  the  tender  offspring  of  these.  Sighs  and 
sobs,  swift  admonitions,  and  sudden,  passionate 
heart-break  cries  resounded.  Death  would  be 
among  them  in  a  few  moments ;  all  could  not 
survive,  many  must  perish,  patriarch  and  sap- 
ling, proud  bridegroom  and  swaying  bride,  the 
withered  and  the  strong. 

From  the  extreme  edge  there  was  a  constant 
emigration  of  living  things.  The  birds  sank 
among  the  bracken. 


132  Tragic  Landscapes. 

Some  deer,  three  human  males  and  a  female, 
some  foxes  and  stoats  came  out  into  the  open, 
hesitated,  and  slowly  retreated. 

The  first  thunder-chariot  now  hurtled  over- 
head. The  charioteer  leaned  low,  and  thrust 
hither  and  thither  with  his  frightful  lance.  A 
deer  was  killed,  also  the  human  female  and  one 
of  the  males.  A  scorching  smell  came  from  a 
spruce-fir ;  the  next  moment  it  hung  in  tongues 
of  flame. 

Then  —  silence:  awful, appalling.  Suddenly, 
the  heaven  opened  in  fire ;  the  earth  became  a 
hollow  globe  of  brass  wherein  an  excruciating 
tumult  whirled  ruin  against  ruin.  The  howl  of 
desolation  seemed  to  belch  at  once  from  the 
entrails  of  the  mountains  and  from  the  bowels 
of  the  bursting  sky. 

The  Tempest  was  come ! 


Tragic  Landscapes.  133 

II. 

MIST. 

A  DENSE  white  mist  lay  upon  the  hills,  cloth- 
ing them  from  summit  to  base  in  a  dripping 
shroud.  The  damp  spongy  peat  everywhere 
sweated  forth  its  overwelling  ooze.  Not  a  living 
thing  seemed  to  haunt  the  desolation,  though 
once  or  twice  a  faint  cry  from  a  bewildered 
curlew  came  stumblingly  through  the  sodden 
atmosphere. 

There  was  neither  day  nor  night,  but  only 
the  lifeless  gloom  of  the  endless,  weary  rain, 
thin,  soaking,  full  of  the  chill  and  silence  of 
the  grave. 

Hour  lapsed  into  hour,  till  at  last  the  gradual 
deepening  of  the  mists  betokened  the  dreary 
end  of  the  dreary  day.  Soaked,  boggy,  treacher- 
ous as  were  the  drenched  and  pool-haunted 
moors,  no  living  thing,  not  even  the  restless 
hill-sheep,  fared  across  them.  But  towards  the 
late  afternoon  a  stooping  figure  passed  from 


134  Tragic  Landscapes. 

gloom  to  gloom,  —  wan,  silent,  making  the  awful- 
ness  of  the  hour  and  the  place  take  on  a  new 
desolation. 

As  the  shadow  stole  slowly  across  the  moor, 
it  stopped  ever  and  anon.  It  was  a  man.  The 
heavy  moisture  on  his  brow  from  the  rain  pass- 
ing through  his  matted  hair  mixed  with  the 
great  drops  of  sweat  that  gathered  there  contin- 
ually. For  as  often  as  he  stopped  he  heard 
footsteps  anigh,  footsteps  in  that  lonely  deserted 
place, —  sometimes  following,  sometimes  beyond 
him,  sometimes  almost  at  his  side.  Yet  it  was 
not  for  the  sound  of  those  following  feet  that 
he  stopped,  but  because  on  the  rain-matted 
cranberry-bushes  or  upon  the  glistening  thyme 
or  on  the  sodden  grass,  he  saw  now  bloody 
foot-marks,  now  marks  of  bloody  fingers.  When 
he  looked,  there  was  nothing  below  or  beyond 
him  but  the  dull  sheen  of  the  rain-soaked  herb- 
age ;  when  he  looked  again,  a  bloody  footstep, 
a  bloody  finger-mark. 

But  at  last  the  following  feet  were  heard  no 
more,  the  bloody  imprints  were  no  more  seen. 
The  man  stood  beside  a  deep  tarn,  and  was 
looking  into  it,  as  the  damned  in  hell  look  into 
their  souls. 


Tragic  Landscapes.  135 

At  times  a  faint,  almost  inaudible  sigh 
breathed  behind  the  mist  in  one  direction.  It 
was  the  hill-wind  stirring  among  the  scaurs  and 
corries  at  a  great  height  on  a  mountain  to  the 
north.  Here  and  there,  a  slight  drifting  of 
the  vapour  disclosed  a  shadowy  boulder :  then 
the  veils  would  lapse  and  intervolve,  and  the 
old  impermeable  obscurity  prevail. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  fugitive  intervals  that 
a  stag,  standing  upon  an  overhanging  rock, 
beheld  another,  a  rival  with  whom  it  had  fought 
almost  to  the  death  the  day  before.  This  second 
stag  stood  among  the  wet  bracken,  his  ears  now 
laid  back,  now  extended  quiveringly,  his  nos- 
trils vibrating,  as  he  strove  to  smell  the  some- 
thing that  moved  through  the  dense  mist  by 
the  tarn. 

The  upper  stag  tautened  his  haunches.  His 
lips  and  nostrils  curled,  and  left  his  yellow  teeth 
agleam.  The  next  moment  he  had  launched 
himself  upon  his  enemy.  There  was  a  crash,  a 
sound  as  of  a  wind-lashed  sea,  sharp  cries  and 
panting  breaths,  groans.  Then  a  long  silence. 
Later,  a  single  faint,  perishing  bleat  came  through 
the  mist  from  the  fern  far  up  upon  the  hill. 

The  restless  wind  that  was  amid  the  summits 


136  Tragic  Landscapes. 

died.  Night  crept  up  from  glen  and  strath; 
the  veils  of  mist  grew  more  and  more  obscure, 
more  dark.  At  last,  from  the  extreme  peaks 
to  where  the  torrent  crawled  into  hollows  in 
the  sterile  valley,  there  was  a  uniform  pall  of 
blackness. 

In  the  chill,  soaking    silence    not  a  thing 
stirred,  not  a  sound  was  audible. 


Tragic  Landscapes,  137 


III. 

SUMMER-SLEEP. 

THE  high-road  sinuated  like  a  white  snake, 
along  the  steeper  slope  of  the  valley.  The  vast 
expanse  of  the  lowland  lay  basking  in  the  July 
sunlight.  In  all  directions  woodlands,  mostly 
of  planes  and  oaks,  swelled  or  lapsed  in  green 
billows. 

The  cuckoo  had  gone ;  the  thrush  was  silent ; 
blackbird  and  shilfa  and  linnet  were  now  song- 
less.  But  every  here  and  there  a  lark  still  filled 
the  summer  air,  as  with  the  cool  spray  of  aerial 
music  ;  in  the  grain  the  corncrakes  called ;  and, 
in  shadowy  places,  in  the  twilight,  the  churring 
of  a  belated  fern-owl  was  still  a  midsummer 
sweetness  upon  the  ear. 

The  gloom  of  July  was  upon  the  trees.  The 
oaks  dreamed  of  green  water.  The  limes  were 
already  displaying  fugitive  yellow  banners.  A 
red  flush  dusked  the  green-gloom  of  the  syca- 
mores. But  by  far  the  greater  mass  of  the 


138  Tragic  Landscapes. 

woodlands  consisted  of  planes  ;  and  these  were 
now  of  a  black  green  darker  than  that  of  north- 
wind  waves  on  a  day  of  storm.  The  meadows, 
too,  lay  in  the  shadow,  as  it  were,  even  when 
the  sun-flood  poured  upon  them. 

From  the  low  ranges  to  the  south  a  faint 
wind  drifted  leisurely  northward.  The  sky  was 
of  a  vivid  blue,  up  whose  invisible  azure  ledges 
a  few  rounded  clouds,  dazzling  white  or  grey  as 
swan's-down,  climbed  imperceptibly. 

In  the  air  was  a  pleasant  murmur  of  the 
green  world.  The  wild-bee  and  the  wasp,  the 
dragon-fly  and  the  gnat,  wrought  everywhere  a 
humming  undertone.  From  copse  and  garth 
and  water-meadow  suspired  an  audible  breath. 

The  lowing  of  kine  from  many  steadings 
blended  with  the  continuous  murmur  of  a  weir, 
where  the  river  curved  under  ancient  alders  and 
slipped  into  a  dense  green  shaw  of  birches 
beyond  an  old  water-mill,  whose  vast  black 
wheel,  jagged  and  broken,  swung  slowly,  fan- 
ning the  hot  air  so  that  it  made  a  haze  as  of 
faint-falling  rain. 

Peace  was  upon  the  land,  and  beauty.  The 
languor  of  dream  gave  the  late  summer  a  love- 
liness that  was  all  its  own,  —  as  of  a  fair  woman, 


Tragic  Landscapes.  139 

asleep,  dreaming  of  the  lover  who  has  not  long 
left  her,  and  the  touch  of  whose  lips  is  still 
warm  upon  her  mouth  and  hair. 

Along  the  high-road,  where  it  made  a  sweep 
southwestward,  and  led  to  a  small  hamlet 
of  thatched,  white-walled  cottages,  three  men 
walked.  The  long  fantastic  shadows  which 
they  cast  were  pale  blue  upon  the  chalky  dust 
of  the  road,  and  leaped  and  contracted  and  slid 
stealthily  forward  with  wearisome,  monotonous 
energy.  Two  of  the  men  were  tall  and  fair; 
one  dark,  loosely  built,  and  of  a  smaller  and 
slighter  build. 

"  There  is  my  home,"  said  the  tallest  way- 
farer suddenly,  after  what  had  been  a  long 
silence ;  and  as  he  spoke  he  pointed  to  a  small 
square  house  set  among  orchard-trees,  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  hamlet. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  place,"  replied  his  comrade, 
slowly,  "  and  I  envy  you." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  added  the  other. 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  the  owner  of  the 
house  answered  quietly. 

But  the  three  shadows  leapt  to  one  side, 
moved  with  fantastic  steps,  and  seemed  con- 
vulsed with  laughter. 


140  Tragic  Landscapes. 

Perhaps  the  tall  shiver-grass  that  rose  by  the 
wayside  out  of  the  garth  of  campions  and  pur- 
ple scabious  could  catch  the  attenuated  sounds 
and  understand  the  speech  of  the  shadows.  If 
so,  it  would  know  that  the  taller  of  the  two 
strangers  said  in  his  heart :  — 

"  There  is  something  of  awe,  of  terror  about 
that  house  ;  nay,  the  whole  land  here  is  under  a 
tragic  gloom.  I  should  die  here,  stifled.  I  am 
glad  I  go  on  the  morrow." 

It  would  know  that  the  smaller  and  darker  of 
the  two  strangers  said  in  his  heart :  — 

"  It  may  all  be  beautiful  and  peaceful,  but 
something  tragic  hides  behind  this  flooding  sun- 
light, behind  these  dark  woodlands,  down  by 
the  water-course  there,  past  the  water-mill,  up 
by  that  house  among  the  orchard-trees." 

It  would  know  that  the  tallest  of  the  three 
men,  he  who  lived  in  that  square  cottage  by  the 
pleasant  hamlet,  said  in  his  heart :  — 

"  It  may  be  that  the  gate  of  hell  is  hidden 
there  among  the  grass,  or  beneath  the  founda- 
tions of  my  house.  Would  God  I  were  free ! 
O  my  God,  madness  and  death  !  " 

Then,  after  another  long  silence,  as  the  three 
wayfarers  drew  near,  the  dark  man  murmured 


Tragic  Landscapes.  141 

his  pleasure  at  the  comely  hamlet,  at  the  quiet 
land  lying  warm  in  the  afternoon  glow.  And 
his  companion  said  that  rest  and  coolness  would 
be  welcome,  and  doubly  so  in  so  fair  and  peace- 
ful a  home.  And  the  tallest  of  the  three,  he 
who  owned  the  house  in  the  orchard,  laughed 
blithely.  And  all  three  moved  onward,  with 
quickened  steps,  through  the  hot,  sweet,  dusty 
afternoon,  golden  now  with  the  waning  sun-glow. 


IV 

THE    ANOINTED    MAN. 
THE    DAN-NAN-R6N. 
GREEN    BRANCHES. 


The  Anointed  Man. 


OF  the  seven  Achannas  —  sons  of  Robert 
Achanna  of  Achanna  in  Galloway,  self-exiled  in 
the  far  north  because  of  a  bitter  feud  with  his 
kindred  —  who  lived  upon  Eilanmore  in  the 
Summer  Isles,  there  was  not  one  who  was  not, 
in  more  or  less  degree,  or  at  some  time  or  other, 
fey. 

Doubtless  I  shall  have  occasion  to  allude  to 
one  and  all  again,  and  certainly  to  the  eldest 
and  youngest ;  for  they  were  the  strangest  folk  I 
have  known  or  met  anywhere  in  the  Celtic 
lands,  from  the  sea-pastures  of  the  Solway 
to  the  kelp-strewn  beaches  of  Lewis.  Upon 
James,  the  seventh  son,  the  doom  of  his  people 
fell  last  and  most  heavily.  Some  day  I  may 
tell  the  full  story  of  his  strange  life  and  tragic 
undoing,  and  of  his  piteous  end.  As  it  hap- 


146  The  Anointed  Man. 

pened,  I  knew  best  the  eldest  and  youngest 
of  the  brothers,  Alison  and  James.  Of  the 
others,  Robert,  Allan,  William,  Marcus,  and 
Gloom,  none  save  the  last-named  survives, 
if  peradventure  he  does,  or  has  been  seen  of 
man  for  many  years  past.  Of  Gloom  (strange 
and  unaccountable  name,  which  used  to  terrify 
me,  the  more  so  as  by  the  savagery  of  fate  it 
was  the  name  of  all  names  suitable  for  Robert 
Achanna's  sixth  son)  I  know  nothing  beyond 
the  fact  that  ten  years  or  more  ago  he  was 
a  Jesuit  priest  in  Rome,  a  bird  of  passage, 
whence  come  and  whither  bound  no  inquiries 
of  mine  could  discover.  Two  years  ago  a  rela- 
tive told  me  that  Gloom  was  dead,  that  he  had 
been  slain  by  some  Mexican  noble  in  an  old 
city  of  Hispaniola  beyond  the  seas.  Doubtless 
the  news  was  founded  on  truth,  though  I  have 
ever  a  vague  unrest  when  I  think  of  Gloom,  as 
though  he  were  travelling  hitherward,  —  as 
though  his  feet,  on  some  urgent  errand,  were 
already  white  with  the  dust  of  the  road  that 
leads  to  my  house. 

But  now  I  wish  to  speak  only  of  Alison 
Achanna.  He  was  a  friend  whom  I  loved, 
though  he  was  a  man  of  close  on  forty  and  I  a 


The  Anointed  Man.  147 

girl  less  than  half  his  years.  We  had  much  in 
common,  and  I  never  knew  any  one  more  com- 
panionable, for  all  that  he  was  called  "  Silent 
Ally."  He  was  tall,  gaunt,  loosely-built.  His 
eyes  were  of  that  misty  blue  which  smoke  takes 
when  it  rises  in  the  woods.  I  used  to  think 
them  like  the  tarns  that  lay  amid  the  canna  and 
gale-surrounded  swamps  in  Uist,  where  I  was 
wont  to  dream  as  a  child. 

I  had  often  noticed  the  light  on  his  face 
when  he  smiled,  a  light  of  such  serene  joy  as 
young  mothers  have  sometimes  over  the  cradles 
of  their  firstborn.  But,  for  some  reason,  I  had 
never  wondered  about  it,  not  even  when  I  heard 
and  understood  the  half-contemptuous,  half- 
reverent  mockery  with  which  not  only  Alison's 
brothers  but  even  his  father  at  times  used 
towards  him.  Once,  I  remember,  I  was  puzzled 
when,  on  a  bleak  day  in  a  stormy  August,  I 
overheard  Gloom  say,  angrily  and  scoffingly, 
"  There  goes  the  Anointed  Man  !  "  I  looked ; 
but  all  I  could  see  was,  that,  despite  the  dreary 
cold,  despite  the  ruined  harvest,  despite  the 
rotting  potato-crop,  Alison  walked  slowly  on- 
ward, smiling,  and  with  glad  eyes  brooding 
upon  the  grey  lands  around  and  beyond  him. 


148  The  Anointed  Man. 

It  was  nearly  a  year  thereafter  —  I  remember 
the  date,  because  it  was  that  of  my  last  visit  to 
Eilanmore  —  that  I  understood  more  fully.  I 
was  walking  westward  with  Alison,  towards 
sundown.  The  light  was  upon  his  face  as 
though  it  came  from  within ;  and  when  I 
looked  again,  half  in  awe,  I  saw  that  there  was 
no  glamour  out  of  the  west,  for  the  evening 
was  dull  and  threatening  rain.  He  was  in  sor- 
row. Three  months  before,  his  brothers,  Allan 
and  William,  had  been  drowned ;  a  month  later, 
his  brother  Robert  had  sickened,  and  now  sat 
in  the  ingle  from  morning  till  the  covering 
of  the  peats,  a  skeleton  almost,  shivering,  and 
morosely  silent,  with  large  staring  eyes.  On 
the  large  bed,  in  the  room  above  the  kitchen, 
old  Robert  Achanna  lay,  stricken  with  paralysis 
It  would  have  been  unendurable  for  me,  but  for 
Alison  and  James,  and,  above  all,  for  my  loved 
girl-friend,  Anne  Gillespie,  Achanna's  niece  and 
the  sunshine  of  his  gloomy  household. 

As  I  walked  with  Alison  I  was  conscious  of 
a  well-nigh  intolerable  depression.  The  house 
we  had  left  was  so  mournful ;  the  bleak,  sodden 
pastures  were  so  mournful ;  so  mournful  was 
the  stony  place  we  were  crossing,  silent  but  for 


The  Anointed  Man.  149 

the  thin  crying  of  the  curlews ;  and  above  all 
so  mournful  was  the  sound  of  the  ocean  as,  un- 
seen, it  moved  sobbingly  round  the  isle,  —  so 
beyond  words  distressing  was  all  this  to  me  that 
I  stopped  abruptly,  meaning  to  go  no  farther, 
but  to  return  to  the  house,  where,  at  least,  there 
was  warmth,  and  where  Anne  would  sing  for  me 
as  she  spun. 

But  when  I  looked  up  into  my  companion's 
face  I  saw  in  truth  the  light  that  shone  from 
within.  His  eyes  were  upon  a  forbidding 
stretch  of  ground,  where  the  blighted  potatoes 
rotted  among  a  wilderness  of  round  skull-white 
stones.  I  remember  them  still,  these  strange 
far-blue  eyes ;  lamps  of  quiet  joy,  lamps  of 
peace,  they  seemed  to  me. 

"  Are  you  looking  at  Achnacarn  ? "  (as  the 
tract  was  called),  I  asked,  in  what  I  am  sure 
was  a  whisper. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Alison,  slowly ;  "  I  am  look- 
ing. It  is  beautiful,  beautiful;  O  God,  how 
beautiful  is  this  lovely  world !  " 

I  know  not  what  made  me  act  so,  but  I  threw 
myself  on  a  heathery  ridge  close  by,  and  broke 
out  into  convulsive  sobbings. 

Alison  stooped,  lifted  me  in  his  strong  arms, 


150  The  Anointed  Man. 

and  soothed  me  with  soft  caressing  touches  and 
quieting  words. 

"  Tell  me,  my  fawn,  what  is  it  ?  What  is  the 
trouble  ?  "  he  asked  again  and  again. 

"  It  is  you  —  it  is  you,  Alison,"  I  managed  to 
say  coherently  at  last ;  "  it  terrifies  me  to  hear 
you  speak  as  you  did  a  little  ago.  You  must  be 
fey.  Why,  why,  do  you  call  that  hateful,  hideous 
field  beautiful — on  this  dreary  day  —  and, — 
and  after  all  that  has  happened,  —  oh,  Alison  ?  '» 

At  this,  I  remember,  he  took  his  plaid  and 
put  it  upon  the  wet  heather,  and  then  drew  me 
thither,  and  seated  himself  and  me  beside  him. 

"  Is  it  not  beautiful,  my  fawn  ?  "  he  asked, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes.  Then,  without  waiting 
for  my  answer,  he  said  quietly,  "  Listen,  dear, 
and  I  will  tell  you." 

He  was  strangely  still,  breathless  he  seemed 
to  me,  for  a  minute  or  more.  Then  he  spoke :  — 

"  I  was  little  more  than  a  child,  a  boy  just  in 
my  teens,  when  something  happened,  something 
that  came  down  the  Rainbow- Arches  of  Cathair- 
Slth."  He  paused  here,  perhaps  to  see  if  I 
followed,  which  I  did,  familiar  as  I  was  with  all 
fairy-lore.  "  I  was  out  upon  the  heather,  in  the 
time  when  the  honey  oozes  in  the  bells  and 


The  Anointed  Man.  151 

cups.  I  had  always  loved  the  island  and  the 
sea.  Perhaps  I  was  foolish,  but  I  was  so  glad 
with  my  joy  that  golden  day  that  I  threw  myself 
on  the  ground  and  kissed  the  hot,  sweet-ling,  and 
put  my  hands  and  arms  into  it,  sobbing  the 
while  with  my  vague,  strange  yearning.  At  last 
I  lay  still,  nerveless,  with  my  eyes  closed.  Sud- 
denly I  was  aware  that  two  tiny  hands  had  come 
up  through  the  spires  of  the  heather,  and  were 
pressing  something  soft  and  fragrant  upon  my 
eyelids.  When  I  opened  them,  I  could  see 
nothing  unfamiliar.  No  one  was  visible.  But 
I  heard  a  whisper :  '  Arise  and  go  away  from 
this  place  at  once  ;  and  this  night  do  not  ven- 
ture out,  lest  evil  befall  you.'  So  I  rose,  trem- 
bling, and  went  home.  Thereafter  I  was  the 
same,  and  yet  not  the  same.  Never  could  I  see, 
as  they  saw,  what  my  father  and  brothers  or 
the  islefolk  looked  upon  as  ugly  or  dreary. 
My  father  was  wroth  with  me  many  times,  and 
called  me  a  fool.  Whenever  my  eyes  fell  upon 
those  waste  and  desolated  spots,  they  seemed  to 
me  passing  fair,  radiant  with  lovely  light.  At 
last  my  father  grew  so  bitter  that,  mocking  me 
the  while,  he  bade  me  go  to  the  towns,  and  see 
there  the  squalor  and  sordid  hideousness  wherein 


152  The  Anointed  Man. 

men  dwelled.  But  thus  it  was  with  me  :  in  the 
places  they  call  slums,  and  among  the  smoke  of 
factories,  and  the  grime  of  destitution,  I  could 
see  all  that  other  men  saw,  only  as  vanishing 
shadows.  What  I  saw  was  lovely,  beautiful 
with  strange  glory,  and  the  faces  of  men  and 
women  were  sweet  and  pure,  and  their  souls 
were  white.  So,  weary  and  bewildered  with 
my  unwilling  quest,  I  came  back  to  Eilanmore. 
And  on  the  day  of  my  home-coming,  Morag 
was  there,  —  Morag  of  the  Falls.  She  turned  to 
my  father,  and  called  him  blind  and  foolish. 
'  He  has  the  white  light  upon  his  brows,'  she 
said  of  me ;  '  I  can  see  it,  like  the  flicker-light 
in  a  wave  when  the  wind 's  from  the  south  in 
thunder-weather.  He  has  been  touched  with 
the  Fairy  Ointment.  The  Guid  Folk  know 
him.  It  will  be  thus  with  him  till  the  day  of 
his  death,  if  a  duinshee  can  die,  being  already 
a  man  dead  yet  born  anew.  He  upon  whom 
the  Fairy  Ointment  has  been  laid  must  see  all 
that  is  ugly  and  hideous  and  dreary  and  bitter 
through  a  glamour  of  beauty.  Thus  it  hath 
been  since  the  Mhic-Alpine  ruled  from  sea  to 
sea,  and  thus  is  it  with  the  man  Alison  your 
Son.' 


The  Anointed  Man.  153 

"  That  is  all,  my  fawn,  and  that  is  why  my 
brothers,  when  they  are  angry,  sometimes  call 
me  the  Anointed  Man." 

"That  is  all."  Yes  perhaps.  But  oh,  Alison 
Achanna,  how  often  have  I  thought  of  that 
most  precious  treasure  you  found  in  the 
heather,  when  the  bells  were  sweet  with  honey- 
ooze  !  Did  the  wild  bees  know  of  it  ?  Would 
that  I  could  hear  the  soft  hum  of  their  gauzy 
wings ! 

Who  of  us  would  not  barter  the  best  of  all 
our  possessions  —  and  some  there  are  who 
would  surrender  all  —  to  have  one  touch  laid 
upon  the  eyelids,  one  touch  of  the  Fairy  Oint- 
ment? But  the  place  is  far,  and  the  hour  is 
hidden.  No  man  may  seek  that  for  which  there 
can  be  no  quest. 

Only  the  wild  bees  know  of  it,  but  I  think 
they  must  be  the  bees  of  Magh-Mell.  And 
there  no  man  that  liveth  may  wayfare — yet. 


The  D&n-nan-Ron. 


WHEN  Anne  Gillespie,  that  was  my  friend  in 
Eilanmore,  left  the  island  after  the  death  of  her 
uncle,  the  old  man  Robert  Achanna,  it  was  to 
go  far  west. 

Among  the  men  of  the  Outer  Isles  who  for 
three  summers  past  had  been  at  the  fishing  off 
Eilanmore  there  was  one  named  Manus  Mac- 
Codrum.  He  was  a  fine  lad  to  see,  but  though 
most  of  the  fisher-folk  of  the  Lewis  and  North 
Uist  are  fair,  either  with  reddish  hair  and  grey 
eyes,  or  blue-eyed  and  yellow-haired,  he  was  of 
a  brown  skin  with  dark  hair  and  dusky  brown 
eyes.  He  was,  however,  as  unlike  to  the  dark 
Celts  of  Arran  and  the  Inner  Hebrides  as  to 
the  northmen.  He  came  of  his  people,  sure 
enough.  All  the  MacCodrums  of  North  Uist 


The  Dan-nan-Ron.  155 

had  been  brown-skinned  and  brown-haired  and 
brown-eyed:  and  herein  may  have  lain  the 
reason  why,  in  by-gone  days,  this  small  clan 
of  Uist  was  known  throughout  the  Western 
Isles  as  the  Sliochd  nan  Rdnt  the  offspring  of 
the  Seals. 

Not  so  tall  as  most  of  the  North  Uist  and 
Long  Island  men,  Mknus  MacCodrum  was 
of  a  fair  height,  and  supple  and  strong.  No 
man  was  a  better  fisherman  than  he,  and  he 
was  well  liked  of  his  fellows,  for  all  the  morose 
gloom  that  was  upon  him  at  times.  He  had  a 
voice  as  sweet  as  a  woman's  when  he  sang,  and 
he  sang  often,  and  knew  all  the  old  runes  of  the 
islands,  from  the  Obb  of  Harris  to  the  Head  of 
Mingulay.  Often,  too,  he  chanted  the  beautiful 
orain  spioradail  of  the  Catholic  priests  and 
Christian  Brothers  of  South  Uist  and  Barra, 
though  where  he  lived  in  North  Uist  he  was 
the  sole  man  who  adhered  to  the  ancient  faith. 

It  may  have  been  because  Anne  was  a  Catho- 
lic too,  though,  sure,  the  Achannas  were  so  also, 
notwithstanding  that  their  forebears  and  kindred 
in  Galloway  were  Protestant  (and  this  because 
of  old  Robert  Achanna's  love  for  his  wife,  who 
was  of  the  old  Faith,  so  it  is  said),  —  it  may  have 


156  The  Dan-nan-R6n. 

been  for  this  reason,  though  I  think  her  lover's 
admiring  eyes  and  soft  speech  and  sweet  sing 
ing  had  more  to  do  with  it,  that  she  pledged 
her  troth  to  Manus.  It  was  a  south  wind 
for  him  as  the  saying  is ;  for  with  her  rippling 
brown  hair  and  soft,  grey  eyes  and  cream- 
white  skin,  there  was  no  comelier  lass  in  the 
isles. 

So  when  Achanna  was  laid  to  his  long  rest, 
and  there  was  none  left  upon  Eilanmore  save 
only  his  three  youngest  sons,  Manus  MacCodrum 
sailed  north-eastward  across  the  Minch  to  take 
home  his  bride.  Of  the  four  eldest  sons,  Ali- 
son had  left  Eilanmore  some  months  before  his 
father  died,  and  sailed  westward,  though  no  one 
knew  whither  or  for  what  end  or  for  how  long, 
and  no  word  had  been  brought  from  him,  nor 
was  he  ever  seen  again  in  the  island  which  had 
come  to  be  called  Eilan-nan-Allmharachain,  the 
Isle  of  the  Strangers ;  Allan  and  William  had 
been  drowned  in  a  wild  gale  in  the  Minch ;  and 
Robert  had  died  of  the  white  fever,  that  deadly 
wasting  disease  which  is  the  scourge  of  the 
isles.  Marcus  was  now  "  Eilanmore,"  and  lived 
there  with  Gloom  and  Sheumais,  all  three  un- 
married, though  it  was  rumoured  among  the 


The  D£n-nan-R6n.  157 

neighbouring  islanders  that  each  loved  Marsail 
nic  Ailpean,1  in  Eilean-Rona  of  the  Summer  Isles 
hard  by  the  coast  of  Sutherland. 

When  Manus  asked  Anne  to  go  with  him  she 
agreed.  The  three  brothers  were  ill-pleased  at 
this,  for  apart  from  their  not  wishing  their  cousin 
to  go  so  far  away,  they  did  not  want  to  lose  her, 
as  she  not  only  cooked  for  them  and  did  all  that 
a  woman  does,  including  spinning  and  weaving, 
but  was  most  sweet  and  fair  to  see,  and  in  the 
long  winter  nights  sang  by  the  hour  together, 
while  Gloom  played  strange  wild  airs  upon  his 
feadan,  a  kind  of  oaten  pipe  or  flute. 

She  loved  him,  I  know;  but  there  was  this 
reason  also  for  her  going,  that  she  was  afraid  of 
Gloom.  Often  upon  the  moor  or  on  the  hill 
she  turned  and  hastened  home,  because  she 
heard  the  lilt  and  fall  of  that  feadan.  It  was 
an  eerie  thing  to  her,  to  be  going  through  the 
twilight  when  she  thought  the  three  men  were 
in  the  house,  smoking  after  their  supper,  and 
suddenly  to  hear  beyond  and  coming  towards 
her  the  shrill  song  of  that  oaten  flute,  playing 

1  Marsail  nic  Ailpean  is  the  Gaelic  of  which  an  En- 
glish translation  would  be  Marjory  MacAlpine.  Nic  is  a 
contraction  for  nighean  mhic,  "  daughter  of  the  line  of." 


158  The  D^n-nan-R6n, 

"  The  Dance  of  the  Dead,"  or  "  The  Flow  and 
Ebb,"  or  "  The  Shadow-Reel." 

That,  sometimes  at  least,  he  knew  she  was 
there  was  clear  to  her,  because,  as  she  stole 
rapidly  through  the  tangled  fern  and  gale,  she 
would  hear  a  mocking  laugh  follow  her  like  a 
leaping  thing. 

Mknus  was  not  there  on  the  night  when  she 
told  Marcus  and  his  brothers  that  she  was  going. 
He  was  in  the  haven  on  board  the  Luath,  with 
his  two  mates,  he  singing  in  the  moonshine  as 
all  three  sat  mending  their  fishing  gear. 

After  the  supper  was  done,  the  three  brothers 
sat  smoking  and  talking  over  an  offer  that  had 
been  made  about  some  Shetland  sheep.  For  a 
time,  Anne  watched  them  in  silence.  They  were 
not  like  brothers,  she  thought.  Marcus,  tall, 
broad-shouldered,  with  yellow  hair  and  strangely 
dark  blue-black  eyes  and  black  eyebrows ;  stern, 
with  a  weary  look  on  his  sun-brown  face.  The 
light  from  the  peats  glinted  upon  the  tawny  curve 
of  thick  hair  that  trailed  from  his  upper  lip,  for 
he  had  the  caisean-feusag  of  the  Northmen. 
Gloom,  slighter  of  build,  dark  of  hue  and  hair,  but 
with  hairless  face  ;  with  thin,  white,  long-fingered 
hands  that  had  ever  a  nervous  motion,  as  though 


The  Dan-nan-R6n.  159 

they  were  tide-wrack.  There  was  always  a  frown 
on  the  centre  of  his  forehead,  even  when  he 
smiled  with  his  thin  lips  and  dusky,  unbetraying 
eyes.  He  looked  what  he  was,  the  brain  of  the 
Achannas.  Not  only  did  he  have  the  English 
as  though  native  to  that  tongue,  but  could  and 
did  read  strange  unnecessary  books.  Moreover, 
he  was  the  only  son  of  Robert  Achanna  to  whom 
the  old  man  had  imparted  his  store  of  learning, 
for  Achanna  had  been  a  schoolmaster  in  his 
youth,  in  Galloway,  and  he  had  intended  Gloom 
for  the  priesthood.  His  voice,  too,  was  low  and 
clear,  but  cold  as  pale-green  water  running  under 
ice.  As  for  Sheumais,  he  was  more  like  Marcus 
than  Gloom,  though  not  so  fair.  He  had  the 
same  brown  hair  and  shadowy  hazel  eyes,  the 
same  pale  and  smooth  face,  with  something  of 
the  same  intent  look  which  characterised  the 
long-time  missing,  and  probably  dead,  eldest 
brother,  Alison.  He,  too,  was  tall  and  gaunt 
On  Sheumais'  face  there  was  that  indescribable, 
as  to  some  of  course  imperceptible  look,  which 
is  indicated  by  the  phrase,  "the  dusk  of  the 
shadow,"  though  few  there  are  who  know 
what  they  mean  by  that,  or,  knowing,  are  fain  to 
say. 


160  The  D^n-nan-R6n. 

Suddenly,  and  without  any  word  or  reason  for 
it,  Gloom  turned  and  spoke  to  her. 

"  Well,  Anne,  and  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  speak,  Gloom." 

"  True  for  you,  mo  cailinn.  But  it 's  about  to 
speak  you  were." 

"  Well,  and  that  is  true.  Marcus,  and  you 
Gloom,  and  you  Sheumais,  I  have  that  to  tell 
which  you  will  not  be  altogether  glad  for  the 
hearing.  'T  is  about  —  about  —  me  and  —  and 
Manus." 

There  was  no  reply  at  first.  The  three  broth- 
ers sat  looking  at  her  like  the  kye  at  a  stranger 
on  the  moorland.  There  was  a  deepening  of  the 
frown  on  Gloom's  brow,  but  when  Anne  looked 
at  him  his  eyes  fell  and  dwelt  in  the  shadow  at 
his  feet.  Then  Marcus  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Is  it  Manus  MacCodrum  you  will  be  mean- 
ing?" 

"Ay,  sure." 

Again,  silence.  Gloom  did  not  lift  his  eyes, 
and  Sheumais  was  now  staring  at  the  peats. 
Marcus  shifted  uneasily. 

"  And  what  will  Manus  MacCodrum  be 
wanting  ?  " 

"  Sure,  Marcus,  you  know  well  what  I  mean. 


The  Dan-nan-Ron.  161 

Why  do  you  make  this  thing  hard  for  me  ? 
There  is  but  one  thing  he  would  come  here 
wanting.  And  he  has  asked  me  if  I  will  go 
with  him;  and  I  have  said  yes;  and  if  you  are 
not  willing  that  he  come  again  with  the  minis- 
ter, or  that  we  go  across  to  the  kirk  in  Berneray 
of  Uist  in  the  Sound  of  Harris,  then  I  will  not 
stay  under  this  roof  another  night,  but  will  go 
away  from  Eilamore  at  sunrise  in  the  Luath, 
that  is  now  in  the  haven.  And  that  is  for  the 
hearing  and  knowing,  Marcus  and  Gloom  and 
Sheumais  ! " 

Once  more,  silence  followed  her  speaking.  It 
was  broken  in  a  strange  way.  Gloom  slipped 
his  feadan  into  his  hands,  and  so  to  his  mouth. 
The  clear,  cold  notes  of  the  flute  filled  the  flame- 
lit  room.  It  was  as  though  white  polar  birds 
were  drifting  before  the  coming  of  snow. 

The  notes  slid  into  a  wild,  remote  air:  cold 
moonlight  on  the  dark  o'  the  sea,  it  was.  It 
was  the  " D&n-nan-Rbn" 

Anne  flushed,  trembled,  and  then  abruptly 
rose.  As  she  leaned  on  her  clenched  right  hand 
upon  the  table,  the  light  of  the  peats  showed 
that  her  eyes  were  aflame. 

"  Why  do  you  play  that,  Gloom  Achanna  ?  " 


162  The  Dan-nan-R6n. 

The  man  finished  the  bar,  then  blew  into  the 
oaten  pipe,  before,  just  glancing  at  the  girl,  he 
replied : 

"  And  what  harm  will  there  be  in  that,  Anna- 
ban?" 

"  You  know  it  is  harm.  That  is  the  '  Dan- 
nan-R&n'!" 

"  Ay,  and  what  then,  Anna-ban  ?  " 

"  What  then  ?  Are  you  thinking  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean  by  playing  the  '  Song  o' 
the  Seals'?" 

With  an  abrupt  gesture  Gloom  put  fatfeadan 
aside.  As  he  did  so,  he  rose. 

"See  here,  Anne,"  he  began  roughly,  when 
Marcus  intervened. 

"  That  will  do  just  now,  Gloom.  Anne-a- 
ghraidh,  do  you  mean  that  you  are  going  to  do 
this  thing  ?  " 

"  Ay,  sure." 

"  Do  you  know  why  Gloom  played  the  '  Dan- 
nan-R&n'?" 

"  It  was  a  cruel  thing." 

"  You  know  what  is  said  in  the  isles  about  — 
about — this  or  that  man,  who  is  under  gheasan, 
who  is  spell-bound  and — and  —  about  the 
seals  and  —  " 


The  D£n-nan-R6n.  163 

"Yes,  Marcus,  it  is  knowing  it  that  I  am: 
*  Tha  iad  a?  cantuinn  gur  h-e  daoine  fo  gheasan 
a  th1  antts  no  rein.'" 

"  '  They  say  that  seals?  "  he  repeated  slowly, 
" '  They  say  that  seals  are  men  under  magic 
spells'  And  have  you  ever  pondered  that  thing, 
Anne,  my  cousin  ?  " 

"  I  am  knowing  well  what  you  mean." 

"  Then  you  will  know  that  the  MacCodrums 
of  North  Uist  are  called  the  Sliochd-nan-Rdn  f  " 

"  I  have  heard." 

"  And  would  you  be  for  marrying  a  man  that 
is  of  the  race  of  the  beasts,  and  that  himself 
knows  what  geas  means,  and  may  any  day  go 
back  to  his  people  ?  " 

"  Ah,  now,  Marcus,  sure  it  is  making  a  mock 
of  me  you  are.  Neither  you  nor  any  here 
believes  that  foolish  thing.  How  can  a  man 
born  of  a  woman  be  a  seal,  even  though  his 
sinnsear  were  the  offspring  of  the  sea-people, 
which  is  not  a  saying  I  am  believing  either, 
though  it  may  be ;  and  not  that  it  matters  much, 
whatever,  about  the  far-back  forbears." 

Marcus  frowned  darkly,  and  at  first  made 
no  response.  At  last  he  answered,  speaking 
sullenly. 


164  The  D£n-nan-R6n. 

"You  may  be  believing  this  or  you  maybe 
believing  that,  Anna-nic-Gilleasbuig,  but  two 
things  are  as  well  known  as  that  the  east  wind 
brings  the  blight  and  the  west  wind  the  rain. 
And  one  is  this :  that  long  ago  a  Seal-man 
wedded  a  woman  of  North  Uist,  and  that  he  or 
his  son  was  called  Neil  MacCodrum ;  and  that 
the  sea-fever  of  the  seal  was  in  the  blood  of  his 
line  ever  after.  And  this  is  the  other:  that 
twice  within  the  memory  of  living  folk,  a  Mac- 
Codrum has  taken  upon  himself  the  form  of  a 
seal,  and  has  so  met  his  death,  once  Neil  Mac- 
Codrum of  Ru'  Tormaid,  and  once  Anndra 
MacCodrum  of  Berneray  in  the  Sound.  There's 
talk  of  others,  but  these  are  known  of  us  all. 
And  you  will  not  be  forgetting  now  that  Neil- 
donn  was  the  grandfather,  and  that  Anndra 
was  the  brother  of  the  father  of  Manus  Mac- 
Codrum?" 

"  I  am  not  caring  what  you  say,  Marcus.  It 
Is  all  foam  of  the  sea." 

"  There 's  no  foam  without  wind  or  tide, 
Anne,  an'  it 's  a  dark  tide  that  will  be  bearing 
you  away  to  Uist,  and  a  black  wind  that  will  be 
blowing  far  away  behind  the  East,  the  wind  that 
will  be  carrying  his  death-cry  to  your  ears." 


The  Dan-nan-R6n.  165 

The  girl  shuddered.  The  brave  spirit  in  her, 
however,  did  not  quail. 

"  Well,  so  be  it.  To  each  his  fate.  But,  seal 
or  no  seal,  I  am  going  to  wed  Manus  MacCo- 
drum,  who  is  a  man  as  good  as  any  here,  and  a 
true  man  at  that,  and  the  man  I  love,  and  that 
will  be  my  man,  God  willing,  the  praise  be 
His!" 

Again  Gloom  took  up  the  feadan,  and  sent  a 
few  cold,  white  notes  floating  through  the  hot 
room,  breaking,  suddenly,  into  the  wild,  fantastic, 
opening  air  of  the  "  Dan-nan-R6n.  " 

With  a  low  cry  and  passionate  gesture  Anne 
sprang  forward,  snatched  the  oat-flute  from  his 
grasp,  and  would  have  thrown  it  in  the  fire. 
Marcus  held  her  in  an  iron  grip,  however. 

"  Don't  you  be  minding  Gloom,  Anne,"  he 
said  quietly,  as  he  took  the  feadan  from  her 
hand  and  handed  it  to  his  brother:  "sure  he's 
only  telling  you  in  his  way  what  I  am  telling 
you  in  mine." 

She  shook  herself  free,  and  moved  to  the 
other  side  of  the  table.  On  the  opposite  wall 
hung  the  dirk  which  had  belonged  to  old  Ach- 
anna.  This  she  unfastened.  Holding  it  in  her 
right  hand,  she  faced  the  three  men. 


166  The  Dcin-nan-R6n. 

"  On  the  cross  of  the  dirk  I  swear  I  will  be 
the  woman  of  Manus  MacCodrum." 

The  brothers  made  no  response.  They 
looked  at  her  fixedly. 

"  And  by  the  cross  of  the  dirk  I  swear  that 
if  any  man  come  between  me  and  Manus,  this 
dirk  will  be  for  his  remembering  in  a  certain 
hour  of  the  day  of  the  days." 

As  she  spoke,  she  looked  meaningly  at 
Gloom,  whom  she  feared  more  than  Marcus  or 
Sheumais. 

"  And  by  the  cross  of  the  dirk  I  swear  that  if 
evil  come  to  Manus,  this  dirk  will  have  another 
sheath,  and  that  will  be  my  milkless  breast ; 
and  by  that  token  I  now  throw  the  old  sheath 
in  the  fire." 

As  she  finished,  she  threw  the  sheath  on  to 
the  burning  peats.  Gloom  quietly  lifted  it, 
brushed  off  the  sparks  of  flame  as  though  they 
were  dust,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"And  by  the  same  token,  Anne,"  he  said, 
"  your  oaths  will  come  to  nought." 

Rising,  he  made  a  sign  to  his  brothers  to  fol- 
low. When  they  were  outside  he  told  Sheumais 
to  return,  and  to  keep  Anne  within,  by  peace  if 
possible,  by  force  if  not  Briefly  they  discussed 


The  Dan-nan-R6n.  167 

their  plans,  and  then  separated.  While  Sheu- 
mais  went  back,  Marcus  and  Gloom  made  their 
way  to  the  haven. 

Their  black  figures  were  visible  in  the  moon- 
light, but  at  first  they  were  not  noticed  by 
the  men  on  board  the  Luath,  for  Manus  was 
singing. 

When  the  isleman  stopped  abruptly,  one  of 
his  companions  asked  him  jokingly  if  his  song 
had  brought  a  seal  alongside,  and  bid  him  be- 
ware lest  it  was  a  woman  of  the  sea-people. 

He  gloomed  morosely,  but  made  no  reply. 
When  the  others  listened,  they  heard  the  wild 
strain  of  the  "  Dan-nan-Ron  "  stealing  through 
the  moonshine.  Staring  against  the  shore,  they 
could  discern  the  two  brothers. 

"What  will  be  the  meaning  of  that?"  asked 
one  of  the  men,  uneasily. 

"  When  a  man  comes  instead  of  a  woman," 
answered  Manus,  slowly,  "  the  young  corbies 
are  astir  in  the  nest." 

So,   it  meant   blood.     Aulay   MacNeil   and 
Donull  MacDonull  put  down  their  gear,  rose,  ' 
and  stood  waiting  for  what  Manus  would  do. 

"  Ho,  there  !  "  he  cried. 

"  Ho-ro ! " 


1 68  The  D4n-nan-R6n. 

"  What  will  you  be  wanting,  Eilanmore  ?  " 

"  We  are  wanting  a  word  of  you,  Manus  Mac- 
Codrum.  Will  you  come  ashore  ?  " 

"  If  you  want  a  word  of  me,  you  can  come 
to  me." 

"  There  is  no  boat  here." 

"I'll  send  the  bbta-beag." 

When  he  had  spoken,  Manus  asked  Donull, 
the  younger  of  his  mates,  a  lad  of  seventeen, 
to  row  to  the  shore. 

"And  bring  back  no  more  than  one  man," 
he  added,  "whether  it  be  Eilanmore  himself 
or  Gloom-mhic-Achanna." 

The  rope  of  the  small  boat  was  unfastened, 
and  Donull  rowed  it  swiftly  through  the  moon- 
shine. The  passing  of  a  cloud  dusked  the 
shore,  but  they  saw  him  throw  a  rope  for  the 
guiding  of  the  boat  alongside  the  ledge  of 
the  landing-place ;  then  the  sudden  darkening 
obscured  the  vision.  Donull  must  be  talking, 
they  thought,  for  two  or  three  minutes  elapsed 
without  sign,  but  at  last  the  boat  put  off  again, 
and  with  two  figures  only.  Doubtless  the  lad 
had  had  to  argue  against  the  coming  of  both 
Marcus  and  Gloom. 

This,  in  truth,  was  what  Donull  had  done. 


The  Dan-nan-R6n.  169 

But  while  he  was  speaking  Marcus  was  staring 
fixedly  beyond  him. 

«  Who  is  it  that  is  there  ?"  he  asked,  "  there, 
in  the  stern  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  one  there." 

"  I  thought  I  saw  the  shadow  of  a  man." 

"  Then  it  was  my  shadow,  Eilanmore." 

Achanna  turned  to  his  brother. 

"  I  see  a  man's  death  there  in  the  boat." 

Gloom  quailed  for  a  moment,  then  laughed 
low. 

"  I  see  no  death  of  a  man  sitting  in  the 
boat,  Marcus,  but  if  I  did  I  am  thinking  it 
would  dance  to  the  air  of  the  '  Dan-nan-Ron,' 
which  is  more  than  the  wraith  of  you  or  me 
would  do." 

"  It  is  not  a  wraith  I  was  seeing,  but  the 
death  of  a  man." 

Gloom  whispered,  and  his  brother  nodded  sul- 
lenly. The  next  moment  a  heavy  muffler  was 
round  Donull's  mouth ;  and  before  he  could 
resist,  or  even  guess  what  had  happened,  he  was 
on  his  face  on  the  shore,  bound  and  gagged. 
A  minute  later  the  oars  were  taken  by  Gloom, 
and  the  boat  moved  swiftly  out  of  the  inner 
haven. 


170  The  Dan-nan-R6n. 

As  it  drew  near  through  the  gloom  Manus 
stared  at  it  intently. 

"  That  is  not  Donull  that  is  rowing,  Aulay  ! " 

"  No :  it  will  be  Gloom  Achanna,  I  'm  think- 
ing." 

MacCodrum  started.  If  so,  that  other  figure 
at  the  stern  was  too  big  for  Donull.  The  cloud 
passed  just  as  the  boat  came  alongside.  The 
rope  was  made  secure,  and  then  Marcus  and 
Gloom  sprang  on  board. 

"Where  is  Donull  MacDonull?"  demanded 
Manus  sharply. 

Marcus  made  no  reply,  so  Gloom  answered 
for  him. 

"  He  has  gone  up  to  the  house  with  a  mes- 
sage to  Anne-nic-Gilleasbuig." 

"  And  what  will  that  message  be?  " 

"  That  Manus  MacCodrum  has  sailed  away 
from  Eilanmore,  and  will  not  see  her  again." 

MacCodrum  laughed.  It  was  a  low,  ugly 
laugh. 

"  Sure,  Gloom  Achanna,  you  should  be  tak- 
ing that  feadan  of  yours  and  playing  the  Cod- 
hail-nan-Pairtean,  for  I  'm  thinkin'  the  crabs 
are  gathering  about  the  rocks  down  below  us, 
an'  laughing  wi'  their  claws." 


The  D£n-nan-R6n.  171 

"  Well,  and  that  is  a  true  thing,"  Gloom  replied 
slowly  and  quietly.  "  Yes,  for  sure  I  might, 
as  you  say,  be  playing  the  'Meeting  of  the 
Crabs.'  Perhaps,"  he  added,  as  by  a  sudden 
afterthought,  "perhaps,  though  it  is  a  calm 
night,  you  will  be  hearing  the  comh-thonn.  The 
'  slapping  of  the  waves '  is  a  better  thing  to  be 
hearing  than  the  '  Meeting  of  the  Crabs.'  " 

"  If  I  hear  the  comh-thonn  it  is  not  in  the  way 
you  will  be  meaning,  Gloom  'ic  Achanna.  'T  is 
not  the  '  up  sail  and  good-bye '  they  will  be 
saying,  but  '  Home  wi'  the  Bride.'  " 

Here  Marcus  intervened. 

"Let  us  be  having  no  more  words,  Mknus 
MacCodrum.  The  girl  Anne  is  not  for  you. 
Gloom  is  to  be  her  man.  So  get  you  hence. 
If  you  will  be  going  quiet,  it  is  quiet  we  will 
be.  If  you  have  your  feet  on  this  thing,  then 
you  will  be  having  that  too  which  I  saw  in  the 
boat." 

"  And  what  was  it  you  saw  in  the  boat, 
Achanna  ? " 

"  The  death  of  a  man." 

"So  — .  And  now"  (this  after  a  prolonged 
silence,  wherein  the  four  men  stood  facing  each 
other)  "  is  it  a  blood-matter  if  not  of  peace  ?  " 


172  The  Dan-nan-Ron. 

"  Ay.  Go,  if  you  are  wise.  If  not,  't  is  your 
own  death  you  will  be  making." 

There  was  a  flash  as  of  summer  lightning.  A 
bluish  flame  seemed  to  leap  through  the  moon- 
shine. Marcus  reeled,  with  a  gasping  cry ;  then, 
leaning  back,  till  his  face  blanched  in  the  moon- 
light, his  knees  gave  way.  As  he  fell,  he  turned 
half  round.  The  long  knife  which  Mknus  had 
hurled  at  him  had  not  penetrated  his  breast  more 
than  two  inches  at  most,  but  as  he  fell  on  the 
deck  it  was  driven  into  him  up  to  the  hilt. 

In  the  blank  silence  that  followed,  the  three 
men  could  hear  a  sound  like  the  ebb-tide  in  sea- 
weed. It  was  the  gurgling  of  the  bloody  froth 
in  the  lungs  of  the  dead  man. 

The  first  to  speak  was  his  brother,  and  then 
only  when  thin  reddish-white  foam-bubbles  be- 
gan to  burst  from  the  blue  lips  of  Marcus. 

"  It  is  murder." 

He  spoke  low,  but  it  was  like  the  surf  of 
breakers  in  the  ears  of  those  who  heard. 

"  You  have  said  one  part  of  a  true  word, 
Gloom  Achanna.  It  is  murder  —  that  you 
and  he  came  here  for ! " 

"The  death  of  Marcus  Achanna  is  on  you, 
Mknus  MacCodrum." 


The  Dan-nan-R6n.  173 

"  So  be  it,  as  between  yourself  and  me,  or 
between  all  of  your  blood  and  me ;  though 
Aulay  MacNeil  as  well  as  you  can  witness  that 
though  in  self-defence  I  threw  the  knife  at 
Achanna,  it  was  his  own  doing  that  drove  it 
into  him." 

"You  can  whisper  that  to  the  rope  when  it  is 
round  your  neck." 

"And  what  will  you  be  doing  now,  Gloom 
Nic  Achanna?" 

For  the  first  time  Gloom  shifted  uneasily. 
A  swift  glance  revealed  to  him  the  awkward 
fact  that  the  boat  trailed  behind  the  Luath,  so 
that  he  could  not  leap  into  it,  while  if  he  turned 
to  haul  it  close  by  the  rope  he  was  at  the  mercy 
of  the  two  men. 

"  I  will  go  in  peace,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Ay,"  was  the  answer,  in  an  equally  quiet 
tone,  "in  the  white  peace." 

Upon  this  menace  of  death  the  two  men 
stood  facing  each  other. 

Achanna  broke  the  silence  at  last. 

"You'll  hear  the  '  Dan-nan-R6n '  the  night 
before  you  die,  Manus  MacCodrum,  and  lest 
you  doubt  it  you  '11  hear  it  again  in  your  death- 
hour." 


The  D£n-nan-R6n. 


"  Ma  tha  sin  an  Ddn,  —  if  that  be  ordained.*1 
Manus  spoke  gravely.  His  very  quietude,  how- 
ever, boded  ill.  There  was  no  hope  of  clemency  ; 
Gloom  knew  that. 

Suddenly  he  laughed  scornfully.  Then, 
pointing  with  his  right  hand  as  if  to  some  one 
behind  his  two  adversaries,  he  cried  out  :  "Put 
the  death-hand  on  them,  Marcus  !  Give  them 
the  Grave  !  "  Both  men  sprang  aside,  the  heart 
of  each  nigh  upon  bursting.  The  death-touch 
of  the  newly  slain  is  an  awful  thing  to  incur, 
for  it  means  that  the  wraith  can  transfer  all  its 
evil  to  the  person  touched. 

The  next  moment  there  was  a  heavy  splash. 
In  a  second  Manus  realised  that  it  was  no  more 
than  a  ruse,  and  that  Gloom  had  escaped.  With 
feverish  haste  he  hauled  in  the  small  boat, 
leaped  into  it,  and  began  at  once  to  row  so  as 
to  intercept  his  enemy. 

Achanna  rose  once,  between  him  and  the 
Luath.  MacCodrum  crossed  the  oars  in  the 
thole-pins  and  seized  the  boat-hook. 

The  swimmer  kept  straight  for  him.  Sud- 
denly he  dived.  In  a  flash,  Manus  realised 
that  Gloom  was  going  to  rise  under  the  boat, 
seize  the  keel,  and  upset  him,  and  thus  probably 


The  Dan-nan- R6n.  175 

be  able  to  grip  him  from  above.  There  was 
time  and  no  more  to  leap ;  and,  indeed,  scarce 
had  he  plunged  into  the  sea  ere  the  boat  swung 
right  over,  Achanna  clambering  over  it  the  next 
moment. 

At  first  Gloom  could  not  see  where  his  foe 
was.  He  crouched  on  the  upturned  craft,  and 
peered  eagerly  into  the  moonlit  water.  All  at 
once  a  black  mass  shot  out  of  the  shadow  be- 
tween him  and  the  smack.  This  black  mass 
laughed,  —  the  same  low,  ugly  laugh  that  had 
preceded  the  death  of  Marcus. 

He  who  was  in  turn  the  swimmer  was  now 
close.  When  a  fathom  away  he  leaned  back 
and  began  to  tread  water  steadily.  In  his  right 
hand  he  grasped  the  boat-hook.  The  man  in 
the  boat  knew  that  to  stay  where  he  was  meant 
certain  death.  He  gathered  himself  together 
like  a  crouching  cat.  Manus  kept  treading  the 
water  slowly,  but  with  the  hook  ready  so  that 
the  sharp  iron  spike  at  the  end  of  it  should 
transfix  his  foe  if  he  came  at  him  with  a  leap. 
Now  and  again  he  laughed.  Then  in  his  low 
sweet  voice,  but  brokenly  at  times  between  his 
deep  breathings,  he  began  to  sing : 


176  The  Dan-nan-R6n. 

The  tide  was  dark,  an'  heavy  with  the  burden  that  it  bore ; 
I  heard  it  talkin',  whisperin',  upon  the  weedy  shore ; 
Each  wave  that  stirred  the  sea-weed  was  like  a  closing 

door; 

'T  is  closing  doors  they  hear  at  last  who  hear  no  more,  no 
more, 

My  Grief, 
No  more  ! 

The  tide  was  in  the  salt  sea-weed,  and  like  a  knife  it  tore ; 
The  wild  sea-wind  went  moaning,  sooing,   moaning  o'er 

and  o'er ; 
The  deep  sea-heart  was  brooding  deep  upon  its  ancient 

lore, — 

I  heard  the  sob,  the  sooing  sob,  the  dying  sob  at  its  core, 

My  Grief, 
Its  core ! 

The  white  sea-waves  were  wan  and  grey  its  ashy  lips  before, 
The  yeast  within  its  ravening  mouth  was  red  with  stream- 
ing gore ; 

O  red  sea-weed,  O  red  sea-waves,  O  hollow  baffled  roar, 
Since  one  thou  hast,  O  dark  dim  Sea,  why  callest  thou  for 

more, 

My  Grief, 
For  more ! 

In  the  quiet  moonlight  the  chant,  with  its  long, 
slow  cadences,  sung  as  no  other  man  in  the  isles 
could  sing  it,  sounded  sweet  and  remote  beyond 


The  Dan-nan-R6n.  177 

the  water  of  the  haven,  and  moved  in  waving 
words  to  tell.  The  glittering  shine  was  upon 
lines  of  fire  along  the  stone  ledges.  Sometimes 
a  fish  rose,  and  spilt  a  ripple  of  pale  gold ;  or  a 
sea-nettle  swam  to  the  surface,  and  turned  its 
blue  or  greenish  globe  of  living  jelly  to  the  moon 
dazzle. 

The  man  in  the  water  made  a  sudden  stop  in 
his  treading,  and  listened  intently.  Then  once 
more  the  phosphorescent  light  gleamed  about 
his  slow-moving  shoulders.  In  a  louder  chant- 
ing voice  came  once  again, 

Each  wave  that  stirs  the  sea-weed  is  like  a  closing  door; 
'Tis  closing  doors  they  hear  at  last  who  hear  no  more,  no 
more, 

My  Grief, 
No  more ! 

Yes,  his  quick  ears  had  caught  the  inland 
strain  of  a  voice  he  knew.  Soft  and  white  as 
the  moonshine  came  Anne's  singing  as  she 
passed  along  the  corrie  leading  to  the  haven. 
In  vain  his  travelling  gaze  sought  her ;  she  was 
still  in  the  shadow,  and,  besides,  a  slow  drifting 
cloud  obscured  the  moonlight.  When  he  looked 
back  again  a  stifled  exclamation  came  from  his 

12 


178  The  D&n-nan-R6n. 

lips.  There  was  not  a  sign  of  Gloom  Achanna. 
He  had  slipped  noiselessly  from  the  boat,  and 
was  now  either  behind  it,  or  had  dived  beneath  it, 
or  was  swimming  under  water  this  way  or  that. 
If  only  the  cloud  would  sail  by,  muttered  Manus, 
as  he  held  himself  in  readiness  for  an  attack 
from  beneath  or  behind.  As  the  dusk  lightened, 
he  swam  slowly  towards  the  boat,  and  then 
swiftly  round  it.  There  was  no  one  there.  He 
climbed  on  to  the  keel,  and  stood,  leaning  for- 
ward, as  a  salmon-leisterer  by  torchlight,  with 
his  spear-pointed  boat-hook  raised.  Neither 
below  nor  beyond  could  he  discern  any  shape. 
A  whispered  call  to  Aulay  MacNeil  showed  that 
he,  too,  saw  nothing.  Gloom  must  have  swooned, 
and  sank  deep  as  he  slipped  through  the  water. 
Perhaps  the  dog-fish  were  already  darting  about 
him. 

Going  behind  the  boat  Manus  guided  it  back 
to  the  smack.  It  was  not  long  before,  with 
MacNeil's  help,  he  righted  the  punt.  One  oar 
had  drifted  out  of  sight,  but  as  there  was  a 
sculling-hole  in  the  stern  that  did  not  matter. 

"What  shall  we  do  with  it?"  he  muttered, 
as  he  stood  at  last  by  the  corpse  of  Marcus. 
"  This  is  a  bad  night  for  us,  Aulay ! " 


The  Dan-nan-R6n.  179 

"  Bad  it  is ;  but  let  us  be  seeing  it  is  not 
worse.  I  'm  thinking  we  should  have  left  the 
boat." 

"And  for  why  that?" 

"We  could  say  that  Marcus  Achanna  and 
Gloom  Achanna  left  us  again,  and  that  we  saw 
no  more  of  them  nor  of  our  boat." 

MacCodrum  pondered  a  while.  The  sound  of 
voices,  borne  faintly  across  the  water,  decided 
him.  Probably  Anne  and  the  lad  Donull  were 
talking.  He  slipped  into  the  boat,  and  with  a 
sail-knife  soon  ripped  it  here  and  there.  It 
filled,  and  then,  heavy  with  the  weight  of  a 
great  ballast-stone  which  Aulay  had  first  handed 
to  his  companion,  and  surging  with  a  foot-thrust 
from  the  latter,  it  sank. 

"We'll  hide  the  —  the  man  there  —  behind 
the  windlass,  below  the  spare  sail,  till  we're  out 
at  sea,  Aulay.  Quick,  give  me  a  hand  !  " 

It  did  not  take  the  two  men  long  to  lift  the 
corpse,  and  do  as  Manus  had  suggested.  They 
had  scarce  accomplished  this,  when  Anne's  voice 
came  hailing  silver-sweet  across  the  water. 

With  death-white  face  and  shaking  limbs, 
MacCodrum  stood  holding  the  mast,  while  with 
a  loud  voice,  so  firm  and  strong  that  Aulay 


180  The  Dan-nan-Rdn. 

MacNeil  smiled  below  his  fear,  he  asked  if  the 
Achannas  were  back  yet,  and  if  so  for  Donull 
to  row  out  at  once,  and  she  with  him  if  she 
would  come. 

It  was  nearly  half  an  hour  thereafter  that 
Anne  rowed  out  towards  the  Luath.  She 
had  gone  at  last  along  the  shore  to  a  creek 
where  one  of  Marcus'  boats  was  moored  and 
returned  with  it.  Having  taken  Donull  on 
board,  she  made  way  with  all  speed,  fearful 
lest  Gloom  or  Marcus  should  intercept  her. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  explain  how  she  had 
laughed  at  Sheumais'  vain  efforts  to  detain  her, 
and  had  come  down  to  the  haven.  As  she  ap- 
proached, she  heard  Manus  singing,  and  so  had 
herself  broken  into  a  song  she  knew  he  loved. 
Then,  by  the  water-edge  she  had  come  upon 
Donull  lying  upon  his  back,  bound  and  gagged. 
After  she  had  released  him  they  waited  to  see 
what  would  happen,  but  as  in  the  moonlight  they 
could  not  see  any  small  boat  come  in,  bound  to 
or  from  the  smack,  she  had  hailed  to  know  if 
Manus  were  there. 

On  his  side  he  said  briefly  that  the  two  Achan- 
nas had  come  to  persuade  him  to  leave  without 
her.  On  his  refusal  they  had  departed  again, 


The  Dan-nan-Ron.  181 

uttering  threats  against  her  as  well  as  himself. 
He  heard  their  quarrelling  voices  as  they  rowed 
into  the  gloom,  but  could  not  see  them  at  last 
because  of  the  obscured  moonlight. 

"  And  now,  Ann-mochree,"  he  added,  "  is  it 
coming  with  me  you  are,  and  just  as  you  are  ? 
Sure,  you  '11  never  repent  it,  and  you  '11  have  all 
you  want  that  I  can  give.  Dear  of  my  heart, 
say  that  you  will  be  coming  away  this  night  of 
the  nights !  By  the  Black  Stone  on  Icolmkill  I 
swear  it,  and  by  the  Sun,  and  by  the  Moon, 
and  by  Himself !  " 

"  I  am  trusting  you,  Manus  dear.  Sure  it  is 
not  for  me  to  be  going  back  to  that  house  after 
what  has  been  done  and  said.  I  go  with  you, 
now  and  always,  God  save  us." 

"  Well,  dear  lass  o'  my  heart,  it's  farewell  to 
Eilanmore  it  is,  for  by  the  Blood  on  the  Cross 
I  '11  never  land  on  it  again !  " 

"And  that  will  be  no  sorrow  to  me,  Manus 
my  home ! " 

And  this  was  the  way  that  my  friend  Anne 
Gillespie  left  Eilanmore  to  go  to  the  isles  of  the 
west. 

It  was  a  fair  sailing,  in  the  white  moonshine, 


1 82  The  D4n-nan-R6n. 

with  a  whispering  breeze  astern.  Anne  leaned 
against  Manus,  dreaming  her  dream.  The  lad 
Donull  sat  drowsing  at  the  helm.  Forward, 
Aulay  MacNeil,  with  his  face  set  against  the 
moonshine  to  the  west,  brooded  dark. 

Though  no  longer  was  land  in  sight,  and 
there  was  peace  among  the  deeps  of  the  quiet 
stars  and  upon  the  sea,  the  shadow  of  fear  was 
upon  the  face  of  Manus  MacCodrum. 

This  might  well  have  been  because  of  the  as 
yet  unburied  dead  that  lay  beneath  the  spare 
sail  by  the  windlass.  The  dead  man,  however, 
did  not  affright  him.  What  went  moaning  in  his 
heart,  and  sighing  and  calling  in  his  brain,  was 
a  faint  falling  echo  he  had  heard,  as  the  Luath 
glided  slow  out  of  the  haven.  Whether  from 
the  water  or  from  the  shore  he  could  not  tell, 
but  he  heard  the  wild,  fantastic  air  of  the  "  Dan- 
nan-R6n,"  as  he  had  heard  it  that  very  night 
upon  the  feadan  of  Gloom  Achanna. 

It  was  his  hope  that  his  ears  had  played  him 
false.  When  he  glanced  about  him,  and  saw 
the  sombre  flame  in  the  eyes  of  Aulay  Mac- 
Neil,  staring  at  him  out  of  the  dusk,  he  knew 
that  which  Oism  the  son  of  Fionn  cried  in  his 
pain.  His  soul  swam  in  mist. 


The  Dan-nan-Ron.  183 


II. 


For  all  the  evil  omens,  the  marriage  of  Anne 
and  Manus  MacCodrum  went  well.  He  was 
more  silent  than  of  yore,  and  men  avoided 
rather  than  sought  him  ;  but  he  was  happy  with 
Anne,  and  content  with  his  two  mates,  who 
were  now  Callum  MacCodrum  and  Ranald 
MacRanald.  The  youth  Donull  had  bettered 
himself  by  joining  a  Skye  skipper  who  was  a 
kinsman,  and  Aulay  MacNeil  had  surprised 
every  one,  except  Manus,  by  going  away  as  a 
seaman  on  board  one  of  the  Loch  line  of  ships 
which  sail  for  Australia  from  the  Clyde. 

Anne  never  knew  what  had  happened,  though 
it  is  possible  she  suspected  somewhat.  All 
that  was  known  to  her  was  that  Marcus  and 
Gloom  Achanna  had  disappeared,  and  were 
supposed  to  have  been  drowned.  There  was 
now  no  Achanna  upon  Eilanmore,  for  Sheu- 
mais  had  taken  a  horror  of  the  place  and  his 
loneliness.  As  soon  as  it  was  commonly  ad- 
mitted that  his  two  brothers  must  have  drifted 


1 84  The  Dan-nan-Ron. 

out  to  sea,  and  been  drowned,  or  at  best  picked 
up  by  some  ocean-going  ship,  he  disposed  of 
the  island-farm,  and  left  Eilanmore  forever.  All 
this  confirmed  the  thing  said  among  the  island- 
ers of  the  west,  that  old  Robert  Achanna  had 
brought  a  curse  with  him.  Blight  and  disaster 
had  visited  Eilanmore  over  and  over  in  the 
many  years  he  had  held  it,  and  death,  some- 
times tragic  or  mysterious,  had  overtaken  six  of 
his  seven  sons,  while  the  youngest  bore  upon 
his  brows  the  "dusk  of  the  shadow."  True, 
none  knew  for  certain  that  three  out  of  the  six 
were  dead,  but  few  for  a  moment  believed  in  the 
possibility  that  Alison  and  Marcus  and  Gloom 
were  alive.  On  the  night  when  Anne  had  left 
the  island  with  Manus  MacCodrum,  he,  Sheu- 
mais,  had  heard  nothing  to  alarm  him.  Even 
when,  an  hour  after  she  had  gone  down  to  the 
haven,  neither  she  nor  his  brothers  had  returned, 
and  the  Luath  had  put  out  to  sea,  he  was 
not  in  fear  of  any  ill.  Clearly,  Marcus  and 
Gloom  had  gone  away  in  the  smack,  perhaps 
determined  to  see  that  the  girl  was  duly  married 
by  priest  or  minister.  He  would  have  per- 
turbed himself  little  for  days  to  come,  but  for  a 
strange  thing  that  happened  that  night  He 


The  Dan-nan-R6n.  185 

had  returned  to  the  house  because  of  a  chill 
that  was  upon  him,  and  convinced  too  that 
all  had  sailed  in  the  Luath.  He  was  sitting 
brooding  by  the  peat-fire,  when  he  was  startled 
by  a  sound  at  the  window  at  the  back  of  the 
room.  A  few  bars  of  a  familiar  air  struck  pain- 
fully upon  his  ear,  though  played  so  low  that 
they  were  just  audible.  What  could  it  be  but 
the  "  Dan-nan-Ron,"  and  who  would  be  playing 
that  but  Gloom  ?  What  did  it  mean  ?  Perhaps 
after  all,  it  was  fantasy  only,  and  there  was  no 
feadan  out  there  in  the  dark.  He  was  ponder- 
ing this  when,  still  low  but  louder  and  sharper 
than  before,  there  rose  and  fell  the  strain  which 
he  hated,  and  Gloom  never  played  before  him, 
that  of  the  Ddvsa-na-mairv,  the  "  Dance  of 
the  Dead."  Swiftly  and  silently  he  rose  and 
crossed  the  room.  In  the  dark  shadows  cast 
by  the  byre  he  could  see  nothing,  but  the  music 
ceased.  He  went  out,  and  searched  everywhere, 
but  found  no  one.  So  he  returned,  took  down 
the  Holy  Book,  with  awed  heart,  and  read  slowly 
till  peace  came  upon  him,  soft  and  sweet  as  the 
warmth  of  the  peat-glow. 

But  as  for  Anne,  she  had  never  even  this  hint 
that  one  of  the  supposed  dead  might  be  alive,  or 


1 86  The  D£n-nan-R6n. 

that,  being  dead,  Gloom  might  yet  touch  a  shad- 
owy feadan  into  a  wild  remote  air  of  the  grave. 

When  month  after  month  went  by,  and  no 
hint  of  ill  came  to  break  upon  their  peace, 
Manus  grew  light-hearted  again.  Once  more 
his  songs  were  heard  as  he  came  back  from  the 
fishing,  or  loitered  ashore  mending  his  nets.  A 
new  happiness  was  nigh  to  them,  for  Anne  was 
with  child.  True,  there  was  fear  also,  for  the 
girl  was  not  well  at  the  time  when  her  labour  was 
near,  and  grew  weaker  daily.  There  came  a  day 
when  Manus  had  to  go  to  Loch  Boisdale  in 
South  Uist :  and  it  was  with  pain  and  something 
of  foreboding  that  he  sailed  away  from  Berneray 
in  the  Sound  of  Harris,  where  he  lived.  It  was 
on  the  third  night  that  he  returned.  He  was 
met  by  Katreen  MacRanald,  the  wife  of  his 
mate,  with  the  news  that  on  the  morrow  after 
his  going  Anne  had  sent  for  the  priest  who  was 
staying  at  Loch  Maddy,  for  she  had  felt  the 
coming  of  death.  It  was  that  very  evening  she 
died,  and  took  the  child  with  her. 

Mknus  heard  as  one  in  a  dream.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  the  tide  was  ebbing  in  his  heart, 
and  a  cold,  sleety  rain  falling,  falling  through  a 
mist  in  his  brain. 


The  Dan-nan-Ron.  187 

Sorrow  lay  heavily  upon  him.  After  the  earth- 
ing of  her  whom  he  loved,  he  went  to  and  fro 
solitary :  often  crossing  the  Narrows  and  going 
to  the  old  Pictish  Tower  under  the  shadow 
of  Ben  Breac.  He  would  not  go  upon  the  sea, 
but  let  his  kinsman  Callum  do  as  he  liked  with 
the  Luath. 

Now  and  again  Father  Allan  MacNeil  sailed 
northward  to  see  him.  Each  time  he  departed 
sadder.  "  The  man  is  going  mad,  I  fear,"  he 
said  to  Callum,  the  last  time  he  saw  Manus. 

The  long  summer  nights  brought  peace  and 
beauty  to  the  isles.  It  was  a  great  herring-year, 
and  the  moon-fishing  was  unusually  good.  All 
the  Uist  men  who  lived  by  the  sea-harvest  were 
in  their  boats  whenever  they  could.  The  pollack, 
the  dogfish,  the  otters,  and  the  seals,  with  flocks 
of  sea-fowl  beyond  number,  shared  in  the  com- 
mon joy.  Manus  MacCodrum  alone  paid  no 
heed  to  herring  or  mackerel.  He  was  often 
seen  striding  along  the  shore,  and  more  than 
once  had  been  heard  laughing ;  sometimes,  too, 
he  was  come  upon  at  low  tide  by  the  great  Reef 
of  Berneray,  singing  wild  strange  runes  and 
songs,  or  crouching  upon  a  rock  and  brooding 
dark. 


1 88  The  Dan-nan-Ron. 

The  midsummer  moon  found  no  man  on  Ber- 
neray  except  MacCodrum,  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Black,  the  minister  of  the  Free  Kirk,  and  an  old 
man  named  Anndra  Mclan.  On  the  night  be- 
fore the  last  day  of  the  middle  month,  Anndra 
was  reproved  by  the  minister  for  saying  that 
he  had  seen  a  man  rise  out  of  one  of  the  graves 
in  the  kirk-yard,  and  steal  down  by  the  stone- 
dykes  towards  Balnahunnur-sa-mona,1  where 
Mknus  MacCodrum  lived. 

"  The  dead  do  not  rise  and  walk,  Anndra." 

"  That  may  be,  maighstir,  but  it  may  have 
been  the  Watcher  of  the  Dead.  Sure  it  is  not 
three  weeks  since  Padruic  McAli stair  was  laid 
beneath  the  green  mound.  He  '11  be  wearying 
for  another  to  take  his  place." 

"  Hoots,  man,  that  is  an  old  superstition. 
The  dead  do  not  rise  and  walk,  I  tell  you." 

"  It  is  right  you  may  be,  maighstir,  but  I 
heard  of  this  from  my  father,  that  was  old  be- 
fore you  were  young,  and  from  his  father  before 
him.  When  the  last-buried  is  weary  with  being 
the  Watcher  of  the  Dead  he  goes  about  from 
place  to  place  till  he  sees  man,  woman,  or  child 

l  Bailie-' na-aonar'sa  mkonadh,  "  th«  solitary  (arm  on 
the  hill-slope." 


The  D£n-nan-R6n.  189 

with  the  death-shadow  in  the  eyes,  and  then  he 
goes  back  to  his  grave  and  lies  down  in  peace, 
for  his  vigil  it  will  be  over  now." 

The  minister  laughed  at  the  folly,  and  went 
into  his  house  to  make  ready  for  the  Sacrament 
that  was  to  be  on  the  morrow.  Old  Anndra, 
however,  was  uneasy.  After  the  porridge,  he 
went  down  through  the  gloaming  to  Balnahun- 
nur-sa-mona.  He  meant  to  go  in  and  warn 
Manus  MacCodrum.  But  when  he  got  to  the 
west  wall,  and  stood  near  the  open  window,  he 
heard  Manus  speaking  in  a  loud  voice,  though 
he  was  alone  in  the  room. 

"  ff*  ionganntach  do  ghradh  dhomhsa,  a?  toirt 
barrachd  air  gradh  nam  ban  !  "  .  .  .  * 

This,  Manus  cried  in  a  voice  quivering  with 
pain.  Anndra  stopped  still,  fearful  to  intrude, 
fearful  also,  perhaps,  to  see  some  one  there 
beside  MacCodrum  whom  eyes  should  not  see. 
Then  the  voice  rose  into  a  cry  of  agony. 

"  Aorant  dhuit,  ay  an  deigh  dhomh  fas 
aosda.'"* 

1 "  Thy  love  to  me  was  wonderful,  surpassing  the  love 
of  women." 

2  "  I  shall  worship  thee,  ay,  even  after  I  .have  become 
old." 


igo  The  D£n-nan-R6n. 

With  that,  Anndra  feared  to  stay.  As  he 
passed  the  byre  he  started,  for  he  thought  he 
saw  the  shadow  of  a  mqn.  When  he  looked 
closer  he  could  see  nought,  so  went  his  way, 
trembling  and  sore  troubled. 

It  was  dusk  when  Manus  came  out.  He  saw 
that  it  was  to  be  a  cloudy  night ;  and  perhaps 
it  was  this  that,  after  a  brief  while,  made  him 
turn  in  his  aimless  walk  and  go  back  to  the 
house.  He  was  sitting  before  the  naming  heart 
of  the  peats,  brooding  in  his  pain,  when  sud- 
denly he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

Loud  and  clear,  and  close  as  though  played 
under  the  very  window  of  the  room,  came  the 
cold,  white  notes  of  an  oaten  flute.  Ah,  too 
well  he  knew  that  wild,  fantastic  air.  Who 
could  it  be  but  Gloom  Achanna,  playing  upon 
his  feadan;  and  what  air  of  all  airs  could  that 
be  but  the  "  Dan-nan-Ron  ?  " 

Was  it  the  dead  man,  standing  there  unseen 
in  the  shadow  of  the  Grave  ?  Was  Marcus 
beside  him,  Marcus  with  the  knife  still  thrust 
up  to  the  hilt,  and  the  lung-foam  upon  his  lips  ? 
Can  the  sea  give  up  its  dead  ?  Can  there  be 
strain  of  my  feadan  that  ever  was  made  of  man, 
there  in  the  Silence  ? 


The  Dan-nan-R6n.  191 

In  vain  Manus  MacCodrum  tortured  himself 
thus.  Too  well  he  knew  that  he  had  heard  the 
"  Dan-nan-Ron,"  and  that  no  other  than  Gloom 
Achanna  was  the  player. 

Suddenly  an  access  of  fury  wrought  him  to 
madness.  With  an  abrupt  lilt  the  tune  swung 
into  the  Davsa-na-mairv,  and  thence,  after  a 
few  seconds,  and  in  a  moment,  into  that  myste- 
rious and  horrible  Codhail-nan-Pairtean  which 
none  but  Gloom  played. 

There  could  be  no  mistake  now,  nor  as  to 
what  was  meant  by  the  muttering,  jerking  air  of 
the  "gathering  of  the  crabs." 

With  a  savage  cry  Manus  snatched  up  a  long 
dirk  from  its  place  by  the  chimney,  and  rushed 
out. 

There  was  not  the  shadow  of  a  sea-gull  even 
in  front ;  so  he  sped  round  by  the  byre.  Nei- 
ther was  anything  unusual  discoverable  there. 

"  Sorrow  upon  me,"  he  cried ;  "  man  or  wraith, 
I  will  be  putting  it  to  the  dirk ! " 

But  there  was  no  one  ;  nothing ;  not  a  sound. 

Then,  at  last,  with  a  listless  droop  of  his 
arms,  MacCodrum  turned  and  went  into  the 
house  again.  He  remembered  what  Gloom 
Achanna  had  said  :  "  You"1  II  hear  the  '  Dan-nan- 


192  The  D&n-nan-R6n. 

Rbn '  the  night  before  you  die,  Manns  Mac 
Codrtim,  and  lest  you  doubt  it,  you  '//  hear  it  in 
your  death-hour." 

He  did  not  stir  from  the  fire  for  three  hours ; 
then  he  rose,  and  went  over  to  his  bed  and  lay 
down  without  undressing. 

He  did  not  sleep,  but  lay  listening  and  watch- 
ing. The  peats  burned  low,  and  at  last  there 
was  scarce  a  flicker  along  the  floor.  Outside 
he  could  hear  the  wind  moaning  upon  the  sea. 
By  a  strange  rustling  sound  he  knew  that  the 
tide  was  ebbing  across  the  great  reef  that  runs 
out  from  Berneray.  By  midnight  the  clouds 
had  gone.  The  moon  shone  clear  and  full. 
When  he  heard  the  clock  strike  in  its  worm- 
eaten,  rickety  case,  he  sat  up,  and  listened 
intently.  He  could  hear  nothing.  No  shadow 
stirred.  Surely  if  the  wraith  of  Gloom  Achanna 
were  waiting  for  him  it  would  make  some  sign, 
now,  in  the  dead  of  night. 

An  hour  passed.  Manus  rose,  crossed  the 
room  on  tip-toe,  and  soundlessly  opened  the 
door.  The  salt  wind  blew  fresh  against  his 
face.  The  smell  of  the  shore,  of  wet  sea-wrack 
and  pungent  gale,  of  foam  and  moving  water, 
came  sweet  to  his  nostrils.  He  heard  a  skua 


The  Dan-nan-R6n.  193 

calling  from  the  rocky  promontory.  From  the 
slopes  behind,  the  wail  of  a  moon-restless  lap- 
wing rose  and  fell  mournfully. 

Crouching  and  with  slow,  stealthy  step,  he 
stole  round  by  the  seaward  wall.  At  the  dyke 
he  stopped,  and  scrutinised  it  on  each  side. 
He  could  see  for  several  hundred  yards,  and 
there  was  not  even  a  sheltering  sheep.  Then, 
soundlessly  as  ever,  he  crept  close  to  the  byre. 
He  put  his  ear  to  chink  after  chink :  but  not  a 
stir  of  a  shadow  even.  As  a  shadow,  himself, 
he  drifted  lightly  to  the  front,  past  the  hay-rick  ; 
then,  with  swift  glances  to  right  and  left,  opened 
the  door  and  entered.  As  he  did  so,  he  stood 
as  though  frozen.  Surely,  he  thought,  that  was 
a  sound  as  of  a  step,  out  there  by  the  hay-rick  ? 
A  terror  was  at  his  heart.  In  front,  the  dark- 
ness of  the  byre,  with  God  knows  what  dread 
thing  awaiting  him;  behind,  a  mysterious 
walker  in  the  night,  swift  to  take  him  unawares. 
The  trembling  that  came  upon  him  was  nigh 
overmastering.  At  last,  with  a  great  effort,  he 
moved  towards  the  ledge,  where  he  kept  a 
candle.  With  shaking  hand  he  struck  a  light. 
The  empty  byre  looked  ghostly  and  fearsome 
in  the  flickering  gloom.  But  there  was  no  one, 
'3 


194  The  D&n-nan-R6n. 

nothing.  He  was  about  to  turn,  when  a  rat  ran 
along  a  loose  hanging  beam,  and  stared  at  him, 
or  at  the  yellow  shine.  He  saw  its  black  eyes 
shining  like  peat-water  in  moonlight. 

The  creature  was  curious  at  first,  then  in- 
different. At  least,  it  began  to  squeak,  and 
then  make  a  swift  scratching  with  its  forepaws. 
Once  or  twice  came  an  answering  squeak;  a 
faint  rustling  was  audible  here  and  there  among 
the  straw. 

With  a  sudden  spring  Manus  seized  the  beast 
Even  in  the  second  in  which  he  raised  it  to  his 
mouth  and  scrunched  its  back  with  his  strong 
teeth,  it  bit  him  severely.  He  let  his  hands 
drop,  and  grope  furtively  in  the  darkness.  With 
stooping  head  he  shook  the  last  breath  out  of 
the  rat,  holding  it  with  his  front  teeth,  with 
back-curled  lips.  The  next  moment  he  dropped 
the  dead  thing,  trampled  upon  it,  and  burst  out 
laughing.  There  was  a  scurrying  of  pattering 
feet,  a  rustling  of  straw.  Then  silence  again. 
A  draught  from  the  door  had  caught  the  flame 
and  extinguished  it.  In  the  silence  and  darkness 
MacCodrum  stood,  intent,  but  no  longer  afraid. 
He  laughed  again,  because  it  was  so  easy  to 
kill  with  the  teeth.  The  noise  of  his  laughter 


The  Dan-nan-Ron.  195 

seemed  to  him  to  leap  hither  and  thither  like  a 
shadowy  ape.  He  could  see  it :  a  blackness 
within  the  darkness.  Once  more  he  laughed. 
It  amused  him  to  see  the  thing  leaping  about 
like  that. 

Suddenly  he  turned,  and  walked  out  into  the 
moonlight.  The  lapwing  was  still  circling  and 
wailing.  He  mocked  it,  with  loud  shrill  pee- 
weety,  pee-iveety,  pee-weet.  The  bird  swung 
waywardly,  alarmed :  its  abrupt  cry,  and  dan- 
cing flight  aroused  its  fellows.  The  air  was  full 
of  the  lamentable  crying  of  plovers. 

A  sough  of  the  sea  came  inland.  Manus  in- 
haled its  breath  with  a  sigh  of  delight.  A  pas- 
sion for  the  running  wave  was  upon  him.  He 
yearned  to  feel  green  water  break  against  his 
breast.  Thirst  and  hunger,  too,  he  felt  at  last, 
though  he  had  known  neither  all  day.  How  cool 
and  sweet,  he  thought,  would  be  a  silver  haddock, 
or  even  a  brown-backed  Hath,  alive  and  gleam- 
ing, wet  with  the  sea-water  still  bubbling  in  its 
gills.  It  would  writhe,  just  like  the  rat;  but  then 
how  he  would  throw  his  head  back,  and  toss  the 
glittering  thing  up  into  the  moonlight,  catch  it 
on  the  downwhirl  just  as  it  neared  the  wave  on 
whose  crest  he  was,  and  then  devour  it  with  swift 
voracious  gulps! 


196  The  D&n-nan-R6n. 

With  quick,  jerky  steps  he  made  his  way  past 
the  landward  side  of  the  small,  thatch-roofed 
cottage.  He  was  about  to  enter,  when  he  no- 
ticed that  the  door,  which  he  had  left  ajar,  was 
closed.  He  stole  to  the  window  and  glanced  in. 

A  single,  thin,  wavering  moonbeam  flickered 
in'  the  room.  But  the  flame  at  the  heart  of  the 
peats  had  worked  its  way  through  the  ash,  and 
there  was  now  a  dull  glow,  though  that  was 
within  the  "  smooring,"  and  threw  scarce  more 
than  a  glimmer  into  the  room. 

There  was  enough  light,  however,  for  Manus 
MacCodrum  to  see  that  a  man  sat  on  the  three- 
legged  stool  before  the  fire.  His  head  was  bent, 
as  though  he  were  listening.  The  face  was  away 
from  the  window.  It  was  his  own  wraith,  of 
course ;  of  that,  Manus  felt  convinced.  What 
was  it  doing  there  ?  Perhaps  it  had  eaten  the 
Holy  Book,  so  that  it  was  beyond  his  putting  a 
rosad  on  it !  At  the  thought  he  laughed  loud. 
The  shadow-man  leaped  to  his  feet. 

The  next  moment  MacCodrum  swung  himself 
on  to  the  thatched  roof,  and  clambered  from 
rope  to  rope,  where  these  held  down  the  big 
stones  which  acted  as  dead-weight  for  the 
thatch,  against  the  fury  of  tempests.  Stone 


The  Dan-nan-Ron.  197 

after  stone  he  tore  from  its  fastenings,  and 
hurled  to  the  ground  over  and  beyond  the  door. 
Then  with  tearing  hands  he  began  to  burrow 
an  opening  in  the  thatch.  All  the  time  he 
whined  like  a  beast. 

He  was  glad  the  moon  shone  full  upon  him. 
When  he  had  made  a  big  enough  hole,  he  would 
see  the  evil  thing  out  of  the  grave  that  sat  in 
his  room,  and  would  stone  it  to  death. 

Suddenly  he  became  still.  A  cold  sweat  broke 
out  upon  him.  The  thing,  whether  his  own 
wraith,  or  the  spirit  of  his  dead  foe,  or  Gloom 
Achanna  himself,  had  begun  to  play,  low  and 
slow,  a  wild  air.  No  piercing,  cold  music  like 
that  of  the  feadan  !  Too  well  he  knew  it,  and 
those  cool,  white  notes  that  moved  here  and 
there  in  the  darkness  like  snowflakes.  As  for 
the  air,  though  he  slept  till  Judgment  Day  and 
heard  but  a  note  of  it  amidst  all  the  clamour  of 
heaven  and  hell,  sure  he  would  scream  because 
of  the  "Dan-nan-R6n." 

The  "  Dan-nan-R6n : "  the  Rom  /  the  Seals  ! 
Ah,  what  was  he  doing  there,  on  the  bitter- 
weary  land !  Out  there  was  the  sea.  Safe 
would  he  be  in  the  green  waves. 

With  a  leap  he  was  on  the  ground.     Seizing  a 


198  The  Dan-nan-R6n. 

a  huge  stone  he  hurled  it  through  the  window. 
Then,  laughing  and  screaming,  he  fled  towards 
the  Great  Reef,  along  whose  sides  the  ebb-tide 
gurgled  and  sobbed,  with  glistering  white  foam. 

He  ceased  screaming  or  laughing  as  he  heard 
the  "  Dan-nan-R6n  "  behind  him,  faint,  but  fol- 
lowing; sure,  following.  Bending  low,  he  raced 
towards  the  rock-ledges  from  which  ran  the 
reef. 

When  at  last  he  reached  the  extreme  ledge 
he  stopped  abruptly.  Out  on  the  reef  he  saw 
from  ten  to  twenty  seals,  some  swimming  to  and 
fro,  others  clinging  to  the  reef,  one  or  two  mak- 
ing a  curious  barking  sound,  with  round  heads 
lifted  against  the  moon.  In  one  place  there 
was  a  surge  and  lashing  of  water.  Two  bulls 
were  fighting  to  the  death. 

With  swift,  stealthy  movements  Manus  un- 
clothed himself.  The  damp  had  clotted  the 
leathern  thongs  of  his  boots,  and  he  snarled 
with  curled  lip  as  he  tore  at  them.  He  shone 
white  in  the  moonshine,  but  was  sheltered  from 
the  sea  by  the  ledge  behind  which  he  crouched. 
"  What  did  Gloom  Achanna  mean  by  that  ? " 
he  muttered  savagely,  as  he  heard  the  nearing  air 
change  into  the  "  Dance  of  the  Dead."  For  a 


The  Dan-nan-R6n.  199 

moment  Manus  was  a  man  again.  He  was  nigh 
upon  turning  to  face  his  foe,  corpse  or  wraith  or 
living  body ;  to  spring  at  this  thing  which  fol- 
lowed him,  and  tear  it  with  hands  and  teeth. 
Then,  once  more,  the  hated  "Song  of  the 
Seals  "  stole  mockingly  through  the  night. 

With  a  shiver  he  slipped  into  the  dark  water. 
Then  with  quick,  powerful  strokes  he  was  in  the 
moon-flood,  and  swimming  hard  against  it  out 
by  the  leeside  of  the  reef. 

So  intent  were  the  seals  upon  the  fight  of 
the  two  great  bulls  that  they  did  not  see  the 
swimmer,  or,  if  they  did,  took  him  for  one  of 
their  own  people.  A  savage  snarling  and  bark- 
ing and  half-human  crying  came  from  them. 
Manus  was  almost  within  reach  of  the  nearest, 
when  one  of  the  combatants  sank  dead,  with  torn 
throat.  The  victor  clambered  on  the  reef,  and 
leaned  high,  swaying  its  great  head  and  shoul- 
ers  to  and  fro.  In  the  moonlight  its  white 
fangs  were  like  red  coral.  Its  blinded  eyes  ran 
with  gore. 

There  was  a  rush,  a  rapid  leaping  and  swirl- 
ing, as  Manus  surged  in  among  the  seals,  which 
were  swimming  round  the  place  where  the  slain 
bull  had  sunk. 


20O  The  Dan-nan-Ron. 

The  laughter  of  this  long,  white  seal  terrified 
them. 

Wh'en  his  knee  struck  against  a  rock,  Mac- 
Codrum  groped  with  his  arms,  and  hauled  him- 
self out  of  the  water. 

From  rock  to  rock  and  ledge  to  ledge  he  went, 
with  a  fantastic,  dancing  motion,  his  body  gleam- 
ing foam-white  in  the  moonshine. 

As  he  pranced  and  trampled  along  the  weedy 
ledges,  he  sang  snatches  of  an  old  rune,  —  the 
lost  rune  of  the  MacCodrums  of  Uist.  The 
seals  on  the  rocks  crouched  spell-bound  ;  those 
slow-swimming  in  the  water  stared  with  brown 
unwinking  eyes,  with  their  small  ears  strained 
against  the  sound  :  — 

It  is  I,  Minus  MacCodrum, 

I  am  telling  you  that,  you,  Anndra  of  my  blood, 

And  you,  Neil  my  grandfather,  and  you,  and  you,  and  you ! 

Ay,  ay,  Manus  my  name  is,  Manus  Mac  Manus  I 

It  is  1  myself,  and  no  other. 

Your  brother,  O  Seals  of  the  Sea ! 

Give  me  blood  of  the  red  fish, 

And  a  bite  of  the  flying  sgadan: 

The  green  wave  on  my  belly, 

And  the  foam  in  my  eyes  1 

I  am  your  bull-brother,  O  Bulls  of  the  Sea, 

Bull  — better  than  any  of  you,  snarling  bull*! 


The  Dan-nan-Ron.  201 

Come  to  me,  mate,  seal  of  the  soft,  furry  womb, 

White  am  I  still,  though  red  shall  I  be, 

Red  with  the  streaming  red  blood  if  any  dispute  me! 

Aoh,  aoh,  aoh,  ar&,  arb,  ho-rb ! 

A  man  was  I,  a  seal  am  I, 

My  fangs  churn  the  yellow  foam  from  my  lips; 

Give  way  to  me,  give  way  to  me,  Seals  of  the  Sea ; 

Give  way,  for  I  am  fey  of  the  sea 

And  the  sea-maiden  I  see  there, 

And  my  name,  true,  is  Manus  MacCodrum, 

The  bull-seal  that  was  a  man,  Ara !  Ara ! 

By  this  time  he  was  close  upon  the  great 
black  seal,  which  was  still  monotonously  sway- 
ing its  gory  head,  with  its  sightless  eyes  rolling 
this  way  and  that.  The  sea-folk  seemed  fasci- 
nated. None  moved,  even  when  the  dancer  in 
the  moonshine  trampled  upon  them. 

When  he  came  within  arm-reach  he  stopped. 

"  Are  you  the  Ceann-Cinnidh  ? "  he  cried. 
"  Are  you  the  head  of  this  clan  of  the  sea-folk  ?  " 

The  huge  beast  ceased  its  swaying.  Its  curled 
lips  moved  from  its  fangs. 

"  Speak,  Seal,  if  there 's  no  curse  upon  you ! 
Maybe,  now,  you  '11  be  Anndra  himself,  •  the 
brother  of  my  father !  Speak!  ffst — are  you 
hearing  that  music  on  the  shore?  'Tis  the 
'  Dan-nan-R6n ' !  Death  o'  my  soul,  it 's  the 


2O2  The  D&n-nan-R6n. 

'  Dan-nan-R6n ' !  Aha,  't  is  Gloom  Achanna 
out  of  the  Grave.  Back,  beast,  and  let  me 
move  on ! " 

With  that,  seeing  the  great  bull  did  not  move, 
he  struck  it  full  in  the  face  with  clenched  fist. 
There  was  a  hoarse,  strangling  roar,  and  the  seal 
champion  was  upon  him  with  lacerating  fangs. 

Manus  swayed  this  way  and  that.  All  he 
could  hear  now  was  the  snarling  and  growling 
and  choking  cries  of  the  maddened  seals.  As 
he  fell,  they  closed  in  upon  him.  His  screams 
wheeled  through  the  night  like  mad  birds.  With 
desperate  fury  he  struggled  to  free  himself. 
The  great  bull  pinned  him  to  the  rock;  a  dozen 
others  tore  at  his  white  flesh,  till  his  spouting 
blood  made  the  rocks  scarlet  in  the  white  shine 
of  the  moon. 

For  a  few  seconds  he  still  fought  savagely, 
tearing  with  teeth  and  hands.  Once,  a  red 
irrecognisable  mass,  he  staggered  to  his  knees. 
A  wild  cry  burst  from  his  lips,  when  from  the 
shore-end  of  the  reef  came  loud  and  clear  the 
lilt  of  the  rune  of  his  fate. 

The  next  moment  he  was  dragged  down  and 
swept  from  the  reef  into  the  sea.  As  the  torn 
and  mangled  body  disappeared  from  sight,  it 


The  Din-nan-R6n.  203 

was  amid  a  seething  crowd  of  leaping  and  strug- 
gling seals,  their  eyes  wild  with  affright  and  fury, 
their  fangs  red  with  human  gore. 

And  Gloom  Achanna,  turning  upon  the  reef, 
moved  swiftly  inland,  playing  low  OQ  his  feadan, 
as  he  went. 


Green   Branches. 


IN  the  year  that  followed  the  death  of  Manus 
MacCodrum,  James  Achanna  saw  nothing  of 
his  brother  Gloom.  He  might  have  thought 
himself  alone  in  the  world,  of  all  his  people,  but 
for  a  letter  that  came  to  him  out  of  the  west. 
True,  he  had  never  accepted  the  common  opin- 
ion that  his  brothers  had  both  been  drowned  on 
that  night  when  Anne  Gillespie  left  Eilanmore 
with  Manus.  In  the  first  place,  he  had  nothing 
of  that  inner  conviction  concerning  the  fate  of 
Gloom  which  he  had  concerning  that  of  Mar- 
cus ;  in  the  next,  had  he  not  heard  the  sound  of 
ihzfeadan,  which  no  one  that  he  knew  played, 
except  Gloom ;  and,  for  further  token,  was  not 
the  tune  that  which  he  hated  above  all  others,  — 
the  "  Dance  of  the  Dead,"  —  for  who  but  Gloom 
would  be  playing  that,  he  hating  it  so,  and  the 


Green  Branches.  205 

hour  being  late,  and  no  one  else  on  Eilanmore  ? 
It  was  no  sure  thing  that  the  dead  had  not  come 
back ;  but  the  more  he  thought  of  it  the  more 
Achanna  believed  that  his  sixth  brother  was 
still  alive.  Of  this,  however,  he  said  nothing  to 
any  one. 

It  was  as  a  man  set  free  that,  at  last,  after 
long  waiting  and  patient  trouble  with  the  dis- 
posal of  all  that  was  left  of  the  Achanna  herit- 
age, he  left  the  island.  It  was  a  grey  memory 
for  him.  The  bleak  moorland  of  it,  the  blight 
that  had  lain  so  long  and  so  often  upon  the 
crops,  the  rains  that  had  swept  the  isle  for  grey 
days  and  grey  weeks  and  grey  months,  the  sob- 
bing of  the  sea  by  day  and  its  dark  moan  by  night, 
its  dim  relinquishing  sigh  in  the  calm  of  dreary 
ebbs,  its  hollow,  baffling  roar  when  the  storm- 
shadow  swept  up  out  of  the  sea,  —  one  and  all 
oppressed  him,  even  in  memory.  He  had  never 
loved  the  island,  even  when  it  lay  green  and 
fragrant  in  the  green  and  white  seas  under 
white  and  blue  skies,  fresh  and  sweet  as  an 
Eden  of  the  sea.  He  had  ever  been  lonely  and 
weary,  tired  of  the  mysterious  shadow  that  lay 
upon  his  folk,  caring  little  for  any  of  his  brothers 
except  the  eldest,  —  long  since  mysteriously  gone 


206  Green  Branches. 

out  of  the  ken  of  man,  —  and  almost  hating 
Gloom,  who  had  ever  borne  him  a  grudge  be- 
cause of  his  beauty,  and  because  of  his  likeness 
to  and  reverent  heed  for  Alison.  Moreover, 
ever  since  he  had  come  to  love  Katreen  Mac- 
arthur,  the  daughter  of  Donald  Macarthur  who 
lived  in  Sleat  of  Skye,  he  had  been  eager  to 
live  near  her ;  the  more  eager  as  he  knew  that 
Gloom  loved  the  girl  also,  and  wished  for  suc- 
cess not  only  for  his  own  sake,  but  so  as  to  put 
a  slight  upon  his  younger  brother. 

So,  when  at  last  he  left  the  island,  he  sailed 
southward  gladly.  He  was  leaving  Eilanmore ; 
he  was  bound  to  a  new  home  in  Skye,  and  per- 
haps he  was  going  to  his  long-delayed,  long- 
dreamed-of  happiness.  True,  Katreen  was  not 
pledged  to  him  ;  he  did  not  even  know  for  sure 
if  she  loved  him.  He  thought,  hoped,  dreamed, 
almost  believed  that  she  did;  but  then  there 
was  her  cousin  Ian,  who  had  long  wooed  her, 
and  to  whom  old  Donald  Macarthur  had  given 
his  blessing.  Nevertheless,  his  heart  would 
have  been  lighter  than  it  had  been  for  long, 
but  for  two  things.  First,  there  was  the  letter. 
Some  weeks  earlier  he  had  received  it,  not 
recognising  the  writing,  because  of  the  few 


Green  Branches.  207 

letters  he  had  ever  seen,  and,  moreover,  as  it 
was  in  a  feigned  hand.  With  difficulty  he  had 
deciphered  the  manuscript,  plain  printed  though 
it  was.  It  ran  thus :  — 

"  Well,  Sheumais,  my  brother,  it  is  wondering  if  I  am 
dead,  you  will  be.  Maybe  ay,  and  maybe  no.  But  I  send 
you  this  writing  to  let  you  see  that  I  know  all  you  do  and 
think  of.  So  you  are  going  to  leave  Eilanmore  without  an 
Achanna  upon  it  ?  And  you  will  be  going  to  Sleat  in  Skye  ? 
Well,  let  me  be  telling  you  this  thing.  Do  not  go.  I 
see  blood  there.  And  there  is  this,  too :  neither  you  nor 
any  man  shall  take  Katreen  away  from  me.  You  know 
that ;  and  Ian  Macarthur  knows  it ;  and  Katreen  knows  it ; 
and  that  holds  whether  I  am  alive  or  dead.  I  say  to  you  : 
do  not  go.  It  will  be  better  for  you,  and  for  all.  Ian 
Macarthur  is  away  in  the  north-sea  with  the  whaler-captain 
who  came  to  us  at  Eilanmore,  and  will  not  be  back  for  three 
months  yet.  It  will  be  better  for  him  not  to  come  back. 
But  if  he  comes  back  he  will  have  to  reckon  with  the  man 
who  says  that  Katreen  Macarthur  is  his.  I  would  rather  not 
have  two  men  to  speak  to,  and  one  my  brother.  It  does  not 
matter  to  you  where  I  am.  I  want  no  money  just  now.  But 
put  aside  my  portion  for  me.  Have  it  ready  for  me  against 
the  day  I  call  for  it.  I  will  not  be  patient  that  day  ;  so  have 
it  ready  for  me.  In  the  place  that  I  am  I  am  content. 
You  will  be  saying :  why  is  my  brother  away  in  a  remote 
place  (I  will  say  this  to  you :  that  it  is  not  further  north 
than  St.  Kilda  nor  further  south  than  the  Mull  of  Can- 
tyre  I),  and  for  what  reason  ?  That  is  between  me  and 


208  Green  Branches. 

silence.  But  perhaps  you  think  of  Anne  sometimes.  Do 
you  know  that  she  lies  under  the  green  grass  ?  And  of 
Minus  MacCodrum  ?  They  say  that  he  swam  out  into  the 
sea  and  was  drowned  ;  and  they  whisper  of  the  seal-blood, 
though  the  minister  is  wrath  with  them  for  that.  He  calls 
it  a  madness.  Well,  I  was  there  at  that  madness,  and  I 
played  to  it  on  my  feadan.  And  now,  Sheumais,  can  you 
be  thinking  of  what  the  tune  was  that  I  played  ? 

"  Your  brother,  who  waits  his  own  day, 

"  GLOOM. 

"  Do  not  be  forgetting  this  thing  :  /  would  rather  not  be 
flaying  the  '  Damhsh-na-mairbh.'  It  was  an  ill  hour  for 
Minus  when  he  heard  the  '  Dan-nan- R&n ; '  it  was  the  song 
of  his  soul,  that ;  and  yours  is  the  '  Davsa-na-Mairv.' " 

This  letter  was  ever  in  his  mind:  this,  and 
what  happened  in  the  gloaming  when  he  sailed 
away  for  Skye  in  the  herring-smack  of  two 
men  who  lived  at  Armadale  in  Sleat.  For,  as 
the  boat  moved  slowly  out  of  the  haven,  one 
of  the  men  asked  him  if  he  was  sure  that  no 
one  was  left  upon  the  island  ;  for  he  thought  he 
had  seen  a  figure  on  the  rocks,  waving  a  black 
scarf.  Achanna  shook  his  head ;  but  just  then 
his  companion  cried  that  at  that  moment  he 
had  seen  the  same  thing.  So  the  smack  was 
put  about,  and  when  she  was  moving  slow 
through  the  haven  again,  Achanna  sculled 


Green  Branches.  209 

ashore  in  the  little  coggly  punt.  In  vain  he 
searched  here  and  there,  calling  loudly  again 
and  again.  Both  men  could  hardly  have  been 
mistaken,  he  thought.  If  there  were  no  human 
creature  on  the  island,  and  if  their  eyes  had 
not  played  them  false,  who  could  it  be  ?  The 
wraith  of  Marcus,  mayhap;  or  might  it  be  the 
old  man  himself  (his  father),  risen  to  bid  fare- 
well to  his  youngest  son,  or  to  warn  him  ? 

It  was  no  use  to  wait  longer,  so,  looking  often 
behind  him,  he  made  his  way  to  the  boat  again, 
and  rowed  slowly  out  towards  the  smack. 

Jerk  — jerk  — jerk  across  the  water  came, 
low  but  only  too  loud  for  him,  the  opening 
motif  of  the  "  Damhsa-na-Mairbh."  A  horror 
came  upon  him,  and  he  drove  the  boat  through 
the  water  so  that  the  sea  splashed  over  the 
bows.  When  he  came  on  deck,  he  cried  in  a 
hoarse  voice  to  the  man  next  him  to  put  up  the 
helm,  and  let  the  smack  swing  to  the  wind. 

"There  is  no  one  there,  Callum  Campbell," 
he  whispered. 

"And  who  is  it  that  will  be  making  that 
strange  music  ?  " 

"  What  music  ?  " 

"  Sure  it  has  stopped  now,  but  I  heard  it  clear, 
14 


2io  Green  Branches. 

and  so  did  Anndra  MacEwan.  It  was  like  the 
sound  of  a  reed-pipe,  and  the  tune  was  an  eerie 
one  at  that." 

"  It  was  the  Dance  of  the  Dead." 

"  And  who  will  be  playing  that  ?  "  asked  the 
man,  with  fear  in  his  eyes. 

"  No  living  man." 

"No  living  man?  " 

"  No.  I  'm  thinking  it  will  be  one  of  my 
brothers  who  was  drowned  here,  and  by  the 
same  token  that  it  is  Gloom,  for  he  played  upon 
thefeadan.  But  if  not,  then  —  then  —  " 

The  two  men  waited  in  breathless  silence, 
each  trembling  with  superstitious  fear;  but  at 
last  the  elder  made  a  sign  to  Achanna  to  finish. 

"Then  — it  will  be  the  Kelpie." 

"Is  there  —  is  there  one  of  the  —  the  cave- 
women  here  ?  " 

"  It  is  said ;  and  you  know  of  old  that  the 
Kelpie  sings  or  plays  a  strange  tune  to  wile  sea- 
men to  their  death." 

At  that  moment,  the  fantastic,  jerking  music 
came  loud  and  clear  across  the  bay.  There 
was  a  horrible  suggestion  in  it,  as  if  dead 
bodies  were  moving  along  the  ground  with  long 
jerks,  and  crying  and  laughing  wild.  It  was 


Green  Branches.  211 

enough ;  the  men,  Campbell  and  MacEwan, 
would  not  now  have  waited  longer  if  Achanna 
had  offered  them  all  he  had  in  the  world.  Nor 
were  they,  or  he,  out  of  their  panic  haste  till  the 
smack  stood  well  out  at  sea,  and  not  a  sound 
could  be  heard  from  Eilanmore. 

They  stood  watching,  silent.  Out  of  the 
dusky  mass  that  lay  in  the  seaward  way  to  the 
north  came  a  red  gleam.  It  was  like  an  eye 
staring  after  them  with  blood-red  glances. 

"  What  is  that,  Achanna  ?  "  asked  one  of  the 
men  at  last. 

"  It  looks  as  though  a  fire  had  been  lit  in  the 
house  up  in  the  island.  The  door  and  the 
window  must  be  open.  The  fire  must  be  fed 
with  wood,  for  no  peats  would  give  that  flame ; 
and  there  were  none  lit  when  I  left.  To  my 
knowing,  there  was  no  wood  for  burning  ex- 
cept the  wood  of  the  shelves  and  the  bed." 

"  And  who  would  be  doing  that  ?  " 

"  I  know  of  that  no  more  than  you  do,  Callum 
Campbell." 

No  more  was  said,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  all 
when  the  last  glimmer  of  the  light  was  absorbed 
in  the  darkness. 

At  the  end  of    the  voyage    Campbell  and 


212  Green  Branches. 

MacEwan  were  well  pleased  to  be  quit  of  their 
companion ;  not  so  much  because  he  was  moody 
and  distraught,  as  because  they  feared  that  a 
spell  was  upon  him,  —  a  fate  in  the  working  of 
which  they  might  become  involved.  It  needed 
no  vow  of  the  one  to  the  other  for  them  to  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  they  would  never  land  on 
Eilanmore,  or,  if  need  be,  only  in  broad  day 
light  and  never  alone. 

The  days  went  well  for  James  Achanna, 
where  he  made  his  home  at  Ranza-beag,  on 
Ranza  Water  in  the  Sleat  of  Skye.  The  farm 
was  small  but  good,  and  he  hoped  that  with 
help  and  care  he  would  soon  have  the  place  as 
good  a  farm  as  there  was  in  all  Skye. 

Donald  Macarthur  did  not  let  him  see  much 
of  Katreen,  but  the  old  man  was  no  longer 
opposed  to  him.  Sheumais  must  wait,  till  Ian 
Macarthur  came  back  again,  which  might  be 
any  day  now.  For  sure,  James  Achanna  of 
Ranza-beag  was  a  very  different  person  from 
the  youngest  of  the  Achanna-folk  who  held 
by  on  lonely  Eilanmore ;  moreover,  the  old 
man  could  not  but  think  with  pleasure  that  it 
would  be  well  to  see  Katreen  able  to  walk 


Green  Branches.  213 

over  the  whole  land  of  Ranza,  from  the  cairn 
at  the  north  of  his  own  Ranza-M6r  to  the  burn 
at  the  south  of  Ranza-beag,  and  know  it  for 
her  own. 

But  Achanna  was  ready  to  wait.  Even  be- 
fore he  had  the  secret  word  of  Katreen  he  knew 
from  her  beautiful  dark  eyes  that  she  loved  him. 
As  the  weeks  went  by  they  managed  to  meet 
often,  and  at  last  Katreen  told  him  that  she 
loved  him  too,  and  would  have  none  but  him  ; 
but  that  they  must  wait  till  Ian  came  back, 
because  of  the  pledge  given  to  him  by  her 
father.  They  were  days  of  joy  for  him. 
Through  many  a  hot  noontide  hour,  through 
many  a  gloaming,  he  went  as  one  in  a  dream. 
Whenever  he  saw  a  birch  swaying  in  the  wind, 
or  a  wave  leaping  upon  Loch  Liath,  that  was 
near  his  home,  or  passed  a  bush  covered  with 
wild  roses,  or  saw  the  moonbeams  lying  white 
on  the  boles  of  the  pines,  he  thought  of  Kat- 
reen, —  his  fawn  for  grace,  and  so  lithe  and  tall, 
with  sunbrown  face  and  wavy,  dark  mass  of  hair, 
and  shadowy  eyes  and  rowan-red  lips.  It  is 
said  that  there  is  a  god  clothed  in  shadow  who 
goes  to  and  fro  among  the  human  kind,  putting 
silence  between  lovers  with  his  waving  hands, 


214  Green  Branches. 

and  breathing  a  chill  out  of  his  cold  breath,  and 
leaving  a  gulf  of  deep  water  flowing  between 
them  because  of  the  passing  of  his  feet.  That 
shadow  never  came  their  way.  Their  love  grew 
as  a  flower  fed  by  rains  and  warmed  by  sun- 
light. 

When  midsummer  came,  and  there  was  no 
sign  of  Ian  Macarthur,  it  was  already  too  late. 
Katreen  had  been  won. 

During  the  summer  months,  it  was  the  cus- 
tom for  Katreen  and  two  of  the  farm-girls  to  go 
up  Maol-Ranza,  to  reside  at  the  shealing  of 
Cnoc-an-Fhraoch  :  and  this  because  of  the  hill- 
pasture  for  the  sheep".  Cnoc-an-Fhraoch  is  a 
round,  boulder-studded  hill  covered  with  heather, 
which  has  a  precipitous  corrie  on  each  side. 
and  in  front  slopes  down  to  Lochan  Fraoch,  a 
lochlet  surrounded  by  dark  woods.  Behind  the 
hill,  or  great  hillock  rather,  lay  the  shealing. 
At  each  week-end  Katreen  went  down  to 
Ranza-M6r,  and  on  every  Monday  morning  at 
sunrise  returned  to  her  heather-girt  eyrie.  It 
was  on  one  of  these  visits  that  she  endured  a 
cruel  shock.  Her  father  told  her  that  she  must 
marry  some  one  else  than  Sheumais  Achanna. 
He  had  heard  words  about  him  which  made  a 


Green  Branches.  215 

union  impossible,  and,  indeed,  he  hoped  that  the 
man  would  leave  Ranza-beag.  In  the  end,  he  ad- 
mitted that  what  he  had  heard  was  to  the  effect 
that  Achanna  was  under  a  doom  of  some  kind . 
that  he  was  involved  in  a  blood  feud ;  and, 
moreover,  that  he  was  fey.  The  old  man  would 
not  be  explicit  as  to  the  person  from  whom  his 
information  came,  but  hinted  that  he  was  a 
stranger  of  rank,  probably  a  laird  of  the  isles. 
Besides  this,  there  was  word  of  Ian  Macarthur. 
He  was  at  Thurso,  in  the  far  north,  and  would 
be  in  Skye  before  long,  and  he  —  her  father  — 
had  written  to  him  that  he  might  wed  Katreen 
as  soon  as  was  practicable. 

"  Do  you  see  that  Untie  yonder,  father  ?  "  was 
her  response  to  this. 

"  Ay,  lass,  and  what  about  the  birdeen?  " 

"Well,  when  she  mates  with  a  hawk,  so  will 
I  be  mating  with  Ian  Macarthur,  but  not  till 
then." 

With  that  she  turned,  and  left  the  house,  and 
went  back  to  Cnoc-an-Fhraoch.  On  the  way 
she  met  Achanna. 

It  was  that  night  that  for  the  first  time  he 
swam  across  Lochan  Fraoch  to  meet  Katreen. 

The  quickest  way  to  reach  the  shealing  was 


2i6  Green  Branches. 

to  row  across  the  lochlet,  and  then  ascend  by  a 
sheep-path  that  wound  through  the  hazel  copses 
at  the  base  of  the  hill.  Fully  half  an  hour  was 
thus  saved,  because  of  the  steepness  of  the 
precipitous  corries  to  right  and  left.  A  boat 
was  kept  for  this  purpose,  but  it  was  fastened 
to  a  shore-boulder  by  a  padlocked  iron  chain, 
the  key  of  which  was  kept  by  Donald  Mac- 
arthur.  Latterly  he  had  refused  to  let  this  key 
out  of  his  possession.  For  one  thing,  no  doubt, 
he  believed  he  could  thus  restrain  Achanna 
from  visiting  his  daughter.  The  young  man 
could  not  approach  the  shealing  from  either 
side  without  being  seen. 

But  that  night,  soon  after  the  moon  was 
whitening  slow  in  the  dark,  Katreen  stole  down 
to  the  hazel  copse  and  awaited  the  coming  of 
her  lover.  The  lochan  was  visible  from  almost 
any  point  on  Cnoc-an-Fhraoch,  as  well  as  from 
the  south  side.  To  cross  it  in  a  boat  unseen, 
if  any  watcher  were  near,  would  be  impossible, 
nor  could  even  a  swimmer  hope  to  escape 
notice  unless  in  the  gloom  of  night  or,  mayhap, 
in  the  dusk.  When,  however,  she  saw,  half 
way  across  the  water,  a  spray  of  green  branches 
slowly  moving  athwart  the  surface,  she  knew 


Green  Branches.  217 

that  Sheumais  was  keeping  his  tryst.  If,  per- 
chance, any  one  else  saw,  he  or  she  would 
never  guess  that  those  derelict  rowan-branches 
shrouded  Sheumais  Achanna. 

It  was  not  till  the  estray  had  drifted  close  to 
the  ledge,  where,  hid  among  the  bracken  and 
the  hazel  undergrowth,  she  awaited  him,  that 
Katreen  descried  the  face  of  her  lover,  as  with 
one  hand  he  parted  the  green  sprays,  and  stared 
longingly  and  lovingly  at  the  figure  he  could 
just  discern  in  the  dim,  fragrant  obscurity. 

And  as  it  was  this  night  so  was  it  many  of 
the  nights  that  followed.  Katreen  spent  the 
days  as  in  a  dream.  Not  even  the  news  of  her 
cousin  lan's  return  disturbed  her  much. 

One  day  the  inevitable  meeting  came.  She 
was  at  Ranza-M6r,  and  when  a  shadow  came 
into  the  dairy  where  she  was  standing  she 
looked  up,  and  saw  Ian  before  her.  She 
thought  he  appeared  taller  and  stronger  than 
ever,  though  still  not  so  tall  as  Sheumais,  who 
would  appear  slim  beside  the  Herculean  Skye 
man.  But  as  she  looked  at  his  close  curling 
black  hair  and  thick  bull-neck  and  the  sullen, 
eyes  in  his  dark  wind-red  face,  she  wondered 
that  she  had  ever  tolerated  him  at  all. 


218  Green  Branches. 

He  broke  the  ice  at  once. 

"Tell  me,  Katreen,  are  you  glad  to  see  me 
back  again?" 

"I  am  glad  that  you  are  home  once  more 
safe  and  sound." 

"  And  will  you  make  it  my  home  for  me  by 
coming  to  live  with  me,  as  I  Ve  asked  you 
again  and  again?" 

"  No :  as  I  Ve  told  you  again  and  again." 

He  gloomed  at  her  angrily  for  a  few  moments 
before  he  resumed. 

"  I  will  be  asking  you  this  one  thing,  Katreen, 
daughter  of  my  father's  brother;  do  you  love 
that  man  Achanna  who  lives  at  Ranza-beag  ?  " 

"  You  may  ask  the  wind  why  it  is  from  the 
east  or  the  west,  but  it  won 't  tell  you.  You  're 
not  the  wind's  master." 

M  If  you  think  I  will  let  this  man  take  you 
away  from  me,  you  are  thinking  a  foolish 
thing." 

"  And  you  saying  a  foolisher." 

"Ay?" 

"Ay,  sure.  What  could  you  do,  Ian  Mhic 
Ian  ?  At  the  worst,  you  could  do  no  more  than 
kill  James  Achanna.  What  then  ?  I  too  would 
die.  You  cannot  separate  us.  I  would  not 


Green  Branches.  219 

marry  you,  now,  though  you  were  the  last  man 
on  the  world  and  I  the  last  woman." 

"  You  're  a  fool,  Katreen  Macarthur.  Your 
father  has  promised  you  to  me,  and  I  tell  you 
this :  if  you  love  Achanna  you  '11  save  his  life 
only  by  letting  him  go  away  from  here.  I  prom- 
ise you  he  will  not  be  here  long."  j 

"  Ay,  you  promise  mej  but  you  will  not  say 
that  thing  to  James  Achanna's  face.  You  are 
a  coward." 

With  a  muttered  oath  the  man  turned  on  his 
heel. 

"  Let  him  beware  o'  me,  and  you,  too,  Ka- 
treen-mo-nighean-donn.  I  swear  it  by  my  mo- 
ther's grave  and  by  St.  Martin's  Cross  that  you 
will  be  mine  by  hook  or  by  crook." 

The  girl  smiled  scornfully.  Slowly  she  lifted 
a  milk-pail. 

"  It  would  be  a  pity  to  waste  the  good  milk, 
lan-gorach,  but  if  you  don't  go  it  is  I  that  will 
be  emptying  the  pail  on  you,  and  then  you  '11 
be  as  white  without  as  your  heart  is  within." 

"So  you  call  me  witless,  do  you?  lan- 
gorach!  Well,  we  shall  be  seeing  as  to  that. 
And  as  for  the  milk,  there  will  be  more  than 
milk  spilt  because  of  you,  Katreen-donn." 


22O  Green  Branches. 

From  that  day,  though  neither  Sheumais  nor 
Katreen  knew  of  it,  a  watch  was  set  upon 
Achanna. 

It  could  not  be  long  before  their  secret  was 
discovered,  and  it  was  with  a  savage  joy  over- 
mastering his  sullen  rage  that  Ian  Macarthur 
knew  himself  the  discoverer,  and  conceived  his 
double  vengeance.  He  dreamed,  gloatingly,  on 
both  the  black  thoughts  that  roamed  like  raven- 
ous beasts  through  the  solitudes  of  his  heart. 
But  he  did  not  dream  that  another  man  was 
filled  with  hate  because  of  Katreen's  lover, 
another  man  who  had  sworn  to  make  her  his 
own,  the  man  who,  disguised,  was  known  in 
Armadale  as  Donald  McLean,  and  in  the  north 
isles  would  have  been  hailed  as  Gloom 
Achanna. 

There  had  been  steady  rain  for  three  days, 
with  a  cold,  raw  wind.  On  the  fourth  the  sun 
shone,  and  set  in  peace.  An  evening  of  quiet 
beauty  followed,  warm,  fragrant,  dusky  from  the 
absence  of  moon  or  star,  though  the  thin  veils 
of  mist  promised  to  disperse  as  the  night  grew. 

There  were  two  men  that  eve  in  the  under- 
growth on  the  south  side  of  the  lochlet.  Sheu- 
mais had  come  earlier  than  his  wont.  Impatient 


Green  Branches.  221 

for  the  dusk,  he  could  scarce  await  the  waning 
of  the  afterglow ;  surely,  he  thought,  he  might 
venture.  Suddenly,  his  ears  caught  the  sound 
of  cautious  footsteps.  Could  it  be  old  Donald, 
perhaps  with  some  inkling  of  the  way  in  which 
his  daughter  saw  her  lover  in  despite  of  all ;  or, 
may-hap,  might  it  be  Ian  Macarthur,  tracking 
him  as  a  hunter  stalking  a  stag  by  the  water- 
pools?  He  crouched,  and  waited.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  saw  Ian  carefully  picking  his  way. 
The  man  stooped  as  he  descried  the  green 
branches ;  smiled  as,  with  a  low  rustling,  he 
raised  them  from  the  ground. 

Meanwhile  yet  another  man  watched  and 
waited,  though  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
lochan,  where  the  hazel  copses  were.  Gloom 
Achanna  half  hoped,  half  feared  the  ap- 
proach of  Katreen.  It  would  be  sweet  to  see 
her  again,  sweet  to  slay  her  lover  before  her 
eyes,  brother  to  him  though  he  was.  But,  there 
was  the  chance  that  she  might  descry  him,  and, 
whether  recognisingly  or  not,  warn  the  swim- 
mer. 

So  it  was  that  he  had  come  there  before  sun- 
down, and  now  lay  crouched  among  the  bracken 
underneath  a  projecting  mossy  ledge  close  upon 


222  Green  Branches. 

the  water,  where  it  could  scarce  be  that  she  or 
any  should  see  him. 

As  the  gloaming  deepened,  a  great  stillness 
reigned.  There  was  no  breath  of  wind.  A 
scarce  audible  sigh  prevailed  among  the  spires 
of  the  heather.  The  charring  of  a  night-jar 
throbbed  through  the  darkness.  Somewhere  a 
corncrake  called  its  monotonous  crtk-craik : 
the  dull  harsh  sound  emphasising  the  utter 
stillness.  The  pinging  of  the  gnats  hovering 
over  and  among  the  sedges  made  an  incessant 
rumour  through  the  warm,  sultry  air. 

There  was  a  splash  once  as  of  a  fish.  Then, 
silence.  Then  a  lower  but  more  continuous 
splash,  or  rather  wash  of  water.  A  slow 
susurrus  rustled  through  the  dark. 

Where  he  lay  among  the  fern  Gloom  Achanna 
slowly  raised  his  head,  stared  through  the 
shadows,  and  listened  intently.  If  Katreen 
were  waiting  there  she  was  not  near. 

Noiselessly  he  slid  into  the  water.  When  he 
rose  it  was  under  a  clump  of  green  branches. 
These  he  had  cut  and  secured  three  hours  be- 
fore. With  his  left  hand  he  swam  slowly,  or 
kept  his  equipoise  in  the  water ;  with  his  right 
he  guided  the  heavy  rowan-bough.  In  his 


Green  Branches.  223 

mouth  were  two  objects,  one  long  and  thin  and 
dark,  the  other  with  an  occasional  glitter  as  of 
a  dead  fish. 

His  motion  was  scarce  perceptible.  None 
the  less  he  was  nigh  the  middle  of  the  loch 
almost  as  soon  as  another  clump  of  green 
branches.  Doubtless  the  swimmer  beneath  it 
was  confident  that  he  was  now  safe  from  obser- 
vation. 

The  two  clumps  of  green  branches  drew 
nearer.  The  smaller  seemed  a  mere  estray,  a 
spray  blown  down  by  the  recent  gale.  But  all 
at  once  the  larger  clump  jerked  awkwardly  and 
stopped.  Simultaneously  a  strange,  low  strain 
of  music  came  from  the  other. 

The  strain  ceased.  The  two  clumps  of  green 
branches  remained  motionless.  Slowly,  at  last, 
the  larger  moved  forward.  It  was  too  dark  for 
the  swimmer  to  see  if  any  one  lay  hid  behind 
the  smaller.  When  he  reached  it  he  thrust 
aside  the  leaves. 

It  was  as  though  a  great  salmon  leaped. 
There  was  a  splash,  and  a  narrow,  dark  body 
shot  through  the  gloom.  At  the  end  of  it  some- 
thing gleamed.  Then  suddenly  there  was  a 
savage  struggle.  The  inanimate  green  branches 


224  Green  Branches. 

tore  this  way  and  that,  and  surged  and  swirled. 
Gasping  cries  came  from  the  leaves.  Again 
and  again  the  gleaming  thing  leapt.  At  the 
third  leap  an  awful  scream  shrilled  through  the 
silence.  The  echo  of  it  wailed  thrice,  with  hor- 
rible distinctness,  in  the  corrie  beyond  Cnoc-an- 
Fhraoch.  Then,  after  a  faint  splashing,  there 
was  silence  once  more.  One  clump  of  green 
branches  drifted  slowly  up  the  lochlet.  The 
other  moved  steadily  towards  the  place  whence, 
a  brief  while  before,  it  had  stirred. 

Only  one  thing  lived  in  the  heart  of  Gloom 
Achanna,  —  the  joy  of  his  exultation.  He  had 
killed  his  brother  Sheumais.  He  had  always 
hated  him  because  of  his  beauty  ;  of  late  he  had 
hated  him  because  he  had  stood  between  him, 
Gloom,  and  Katreen  Macarthur, — because  he 
had  become  her  lover.  They  were  all  dead  now, 
except  'himself,  all  the  Achannas.  He  was 
"  Achanna.1'  When  the  day  came  that  he  would 
go  back  to  Galloway,  there  would  be  a  magpie 
on  the  first  birk,  and  a  screaming  jay  on  the  first 
rowan,  and  a  croaking  raven  on  the  first  fir ;  ay, 
he  would  be  their  suffering,  though  they  knew 
nothing  of  him  meanwhile !  He  would  be 
Achanna  of  Achanna  again.  Let  those  who 


Green  Branches.  225 

would  stand  in  his  way  beware.  As  for  Ka- 
treen:  perhaps  he  would  take  her  there,  per- 
haps not.  He  smiled. 

These  thoughts  were  the  wandering  fires  in 
his  brain  while  he  slowly  swam  shoreward 
under  the  floating  green  branches,  and  as  he 
disengaged  himself  from  them,  and  crawled 
upward  through  the  bracken.  It  was  at  this 
moment  that  a  third  man  entered  the  water, 
from  the  farther  shore. 

Prepared  as  he  was  to  come  suddenly  upon 
Katreen,  Gloom  was  startled  when,  in  a  place  of 
dense  shadow,  a  hand  touched  his  shoulder,  and 
her  voice  whispered  "  Sheumais,  Sheumais  /  " 

The  next  moment  she  was  in  his  arms.  He 
could  feel  her  heart  beating  against  his  side. 

"  What  was  it,  Sheumais  ?  What  was  that 
awful  cry  ?  "  she  whispered. 

For  answer,  he  put  his  lips  to  hers,  and  kissed 
her  again  and  again. 

The  girl  drew  back.  Some  vague  instinct 
warned  her. 

"What  is  it,  Sheumais?  Why  don't  you 
speak  ?  " 

He  drew  her  close  again. 

"  Pulse  of  my  heart,  it  is  I  who  love  you,  I 
'5 


226  Green  Branches. 

who  love  you  best  of  all;  it  is  I,  Gloom 
Achanna ! " 

With  a  cry,  she  struck  him  full  in  the  face. 
He  staggered,  and  in  that  moment  she  freed 
herself. 

"  You  coward!  " 

"Katreen,  I  —  " 

"  Come  no  nearer.  If  you  do,  it  will  be  the 
death  of  you  !  " 

"The  death  o'  me!  Ah,  bonnie  fool  that 
you  are,  and  is  it  you  that  will  be  the  death  o' 
me?" 

"Ay,  Gloom  Achanna,  for  I  have  but  to 
scream  and  Sheumais  will  be  here,  an  he  would 
kill  you  like  a  dog  if  he  knew  you  did  me 
harm." 

"  Ah,  but  if  there  were  no  Sheumais,  or  any 
man  to  come  between  me  an'  my  will !  " 

"  Then  there  would  be  a  woman !  Ay,  if  you 
overbore  me  I  would  strangle  you  with  my  hair, 
or  fix  my  teeth  in  your  false  throat !  " 

"  I  was  not  for  knowing  you  were  such  a  wild- 
cat :  but  I  '11  tame  you  yet,  my  lass !  Aha, 
wild-cat !  "  and  as  he  spoke  he  laughed  low. 

"  It  is  a  true  word,  Gloom  of  the  black  heart. 
I  am  a  wild-cat,  and  like  a  wild-cat  I  am  not  to 


Green  Branches.  227 

be  seized  by  a  fox ;  and  that  you  will  be  finding 
to  your  cost,  by  the  holy  St.  Bridget!  But 
now,  off  with  you,  brother  of  my  man  ! " 

"  Your  man  —  ha !  ha  1' —  " 

"Why  do  you  laugh?" 

"  Sure,  I  am  laughing  at  a  warm,  white  lass 
like  yourself  having  a  dead  man  as  your  lover!  " 

"A  — dead  — man?" 

No  answer  came.  The  girl  shook  with  a 
new  fear.  Slowly  she  drew  closer,  till  her 
breath  fell  warm  against  the  face  of  the  other. 
He  spoke  at  last. 

"  Ay,  a  dead  man." 

"  It  is  a  lie." 

"  Where  would  you  be  that  you  were  not 
hearing  his  good-bye  ?  I  'm  thinking  it  was 
loud  enough ! " 

"It  is  a  lie  —  it  is  a  lie  !  " 

"  No,  it  is  no  lie.  Sheumais  is  cold  enough 
now.  He 's  low  among  the  weeds  by  now.  Ay, 
by  now :  down  there  in  the  lochan." 

"  What  —  you,  you  devil!  Is  it  for  killing 
your  own  brother  you  would  be  ?  " 

"  I  killed  no  one.  He  died  his  own  way. 
Maybe  the  cramp  took  him.  Maybe  —  may- 
be a  kelpie  gripped  him.  I  watched.  I  saw 


228  Green  Branches. 

him  beneath  the  green  branches.  He  was  dead 
before  he  died.  I  saw  it  in  the  white  face  o' 
him.  Then  he  sank.  He  's  dead.  Sheumais  is 
dead.  Look  here,  girl,  I  've  always  loved  you. 
I  swore  the  oath  upon  you.  You  're  mine. 
Sure,  you  're  mine  now,  Katreen  !  It  is  loving 
you  I  am  !  It  will  be  a  south  wind  for  you 
from  this  day,  muirnean  mochree .'  See  here, 
I  '11  show  you  how  I  —  " 

"  Back  —  back  —  murderer!  " 

"  Be  stopping  that  foolishness  now,  Katreen 
Macarthur !  By  the  Book  I  am  tired  of  it.  I 
am  loving  you,  and  it 's  having  you  for  mine  I 
am!  And  if  you  won't  come  to  me  like  the 
dove  to  its  mate,  I  '11  come  to  you  like  the  hawk 
to  the  dove  !  " 

With  a  spring  he  was  upon  her.  In  vain  she 
strove  to  beat  him  back.  His  arms  held  her  as 
a  stoat  grips  a  rabbit. 

He  pulled  her  head  back,  and  kissed  her 
throat  till  the  strangulating  breath  sobbed 
against  his  ear.  With  a  last  despairing  effort 
she  screamed  the  name  of  the  dead  man : 
"  Sheumais  !  Sheumais  /  Sheumais  / "  The 
man  who  struggled  with  her  laughed. 

"  Ay,  call  away  !    The  herrin'  will  be  coming 


Green  Branches.  229 

through  the  bracken  as  soon  as  Sheumais  comes 
'to  your  call !  Ah,  it  is  mine  you  are  now,  Ka- 
treen  !  He  's  dead  an'  cold  —  an'  you  'd  best 
have  a  living  man  —  an'  —  " 

She  fell  back,  her  balance  lost  in  the  sudden 
releasing.  What  did  it  mean?  Gloom  still 
stood  there,  but  as  one  frozen.  Through  the 
darkness  she  saw,  at  last,  that  a  hand  gripped 
his  shoulder ;  behind  him  a  black  mass  vaguely 
obtruded. 

For  some  moments  there  was  absolute  silence. 
Then  a  hoarse  voice  came  out  of  the  dark. 

"  You  will  be  knowing  now  who  it  is,  Gloom 
Achanna ! " 

The  voice  was  that  of  Sheumais,  who  lay 
dead  in  the  lochan.  The  murderer  shook  as  in 
a  palsy.  With  a  great  effort,  slowly  he  turned 
his  head.  He  saw  a  white  splatch,  the  face  of 
the  corpse;  in  this  white  splatch  flamed  two 
burning  eyes,  the  eyes  of  the  soul  of  the  brother 
whom  he  had  slain. 

He  reeled,  staggered  as  a  blind  man,  and,  free 
now  of  that  awful  clasp,  swayed  to  and  fro  as 
one  drunken. 

Slowly,  Sheumais  raised  an  arm  and  pointed 
downward  through  the  wood  towards  the 


230  Green  Branches. 

lochan.  Still  pointing,  he  moved  swiftly  for- 
ward. 

With  a  cry  like  a  beast,  Gloom  Achanna 
swung  to  one  side,  stumbled,  rose,  and  leaped 
into  the  darkness. 

For  some  minutes  Sheumais  and  Katreen 
stood,  silent,  apart,  listening  to  the  crashing 
sound  of  his  flight,  —  the  race  of  the  murderer 
against  the  pursuing  shadow  of  the  Grave. 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    THE    SUN. 
THE    BIRDEEN. 
SILK    O'    THE    KINE. 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 


THERE  are  not  many  of  the  Gaelic  folk  of 
Lochfyneside  in  Argyll  who  could  tell  the  story 
of  Ethlenn  Stuart;  perhaps  few,  even,  who 
could  point  out  the  particular  rocky  promon- 
tory, to  this  day  (although  upon  no  map)  called 
Ard-Ethlenn,  some  thirty  miles  or  less  up  the 
wild  and  beautiful  western  coast  of  Lochfyne, 
between  Crarae  Point  and  the  Ceann-More. 
Ard-Ethlenn,  Creagaleen :  meaningless  names 
these  to  the  few  strangers  who  might  chance  to 
hear  them  from  any  fisherman  of  Strachur  or 
Stralachlan.  But  to  those  who  know  who  ,and 
what  Ethlenn  Stuart  was,  and  the  story  of  her 
love  for  Ian  Mclan,  the  mountain-poet  who  is 
known  as  Ian  M6r  of  the  Hills,  and  the  end  of 
their  tragic  joy,  and  the  last  sleep  of  her  against 
the  sun, — for  such  as  these  "  Ard-Ethlenn  '•'  and 


234      The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

"  Creagaleen"  "  Creag-Gdusaln  "  and  "  Maol- 
Lde-y-a-ghrian,"  are  names  with  a  haunting 
music. 

My  own  knowledge  of  "  the  Daughter  of  the 
Sun,"  as  Ethlenn  was  called  by  the  imaginative 
people  of  the  glens, — partly  after  a  poem  by 
Ian  M6r,  addressed  to  her  under  that  name, 
partly  because  of  her  passionate  love  of  sun- 
light and  the  hill-wind  and  the  sea,  but  mainly, 
I  understand,  because  she  herself  was  a  poet,  "  a 
poet  of  the  fire  of  love,  and  so  a  Daughter  of 
the  Sun,"  as  one  of  the  old  Celtic  folk-poems 
has  it,  —  this  knowledge  was  largely  derived 
from  Dionaid  MacDiarmid,  the  married  sister  of 
Ian.  Dionaid  herself,  with  her  little  cottage,  are 
no  longer  known  of  Strachur.  Years  ago  the 
small  croft  by  the  pine-wood  behind  Easter 
Creggans  was  destroyed  by  a  winter-gale,  and 
in  time  even  the  few  poor,  fragmentary  traces 
of  human  occupation  disappeared.  The  sum- 
mer before  the  accident,  Dionaid  had  become 
weak  and  ailing ;  in  the  autumn  she  died. 

But,  also,  I  knew  Ian  M6r.  Often,  as  a 
child,  I  met  him  upon  the  lonely  hills  where  I 
lived ;  later,  he  would  speak  with  me  when  he 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun.       235 

would  have  word  of  none,  when  the  gloom  was 
upon  him  ;  and  I  was  with  him  when  he  died. 

We  have  all  our  dreams  of  impossible  love. 
Somewhere,  sometimes,  the  impossible  happens. 
Then  a  man  and  a  woman  know  that  oblivious 
rapture  of  love,  the  mirdhei,  the  ecstasy  of  the 
life  of  dream  paramount  over  the  ordinary 
human  gladness  of  the  life  of  actuality.  If 
ever  there  were  man  and  woman  who  were 
these  flower-crowned  visionaries  of  love,  Ian 
Mor  Mclan  and  Ethlenn  Stuart  were  they. 

I  cannot  tell  any  connected  story  of  their  two 
lives;  nor,  sure,  is  there  any  need  to  do  so. 
The  name  and  repute  of  Ian  are  with  his 
kindred  and  the  hill-folk  of  his  race :  he  has  his 
immortality  by  the  flame-lit  ingle,  in  the  byres 
of  the  straths,  in  twilight  haunts  of  lovers,  in 
the  mountain-shealings,  wherever  the  songs  of 
Ian  M6r,  so  passing  sweet  and  strange,  are 
warm  upon  the  lips  of  young  and  old.  In  his 
last  years  he  was  known  among  the  people  in 
Strachurmore  as  lan-Aonaran,  or  as  Ian-m6r-na- 
aonar-sa-mhonadh  —  Ian  "the  strange  one,  the 
lonely  one,"  or  Ian  "  the  lonely  one  of  the  hills," 
as,  long  ago,  Ossian  called  a  solitary  hill-Druid 


236      The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

aonaran  liath  nan  creag,  "  the  hoary  hermit  of 
the  rocks."  No  one  ever  ventured  to  say  that 
he  was  mad.  All  knew,  however,  that,  years 
agone,  he  had  become  distraught  through  the 
passion  of  his  love,  which  had  nigh  killed  him. 
At  most,  if  a  stronger  epithet  than  aonaran 
was  used  (which  means  both  "  lonely "  and 
"singular"),  his  dubhachas,  his  gloom,  was 
gently  alluded  to,  or  the  cianalas,  the  mountain- 
melancholy,  or  that  strange  shadow  thrown 
across  the  mind  of  man  by  nature,  the  ciar  nan 
earn,  the  gloom  of  the  rocks,  as  it  is  called  by 
the  hill-people.  Young  and  old  held  in  rever- 
ence this  man  who  dwelt  on  high,  and  com- 
muned more  with  the  swift  fires  of  sunrise  and 
the  slow  flames  of  sunset  than  with  his  fellows. 
It  was  in  his  thirtieth  year  that  Ian  first 
spoke  with  Ethlenn ;  and  that  was  the  year 
when  she  and  her  widowed  mother  came  to  live 
at  what  was  then  the  lonely  clachan  of  Easter 
Creggans  near  Strachur.  I  am  using  the  word 
meaningly:  for  though,  as  I  say,  it  was  then 
he  first  spoke  with  her,  he  had  seen  her  three 
years  earlier,  though  without  knowledge  of  who 
she  was.  One  day  in  late  autumn  he  had  gone 
with  a  friend  as  far  as  Ormidale  of  Loch  Rid- 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun.       237 

den,  and  having  said  farewell  to  his  one  inti- 
mate companion,  who  was  on  his  way  to  a  far 
land  whence  he  would  not  come  again,  had 
walked  along  the  steep  hill-slopes  to  Tigh-na- 
bruaich  in  the  Kyles  of  Bute,  where  he  had  the 
steamer  that  sailed  the  fifty  or  sixty  miles'  water- 
way to  Inverary.  On  the  boat,  a  small  screw- 
steamer  for  cargo  and  local  traffic,  he  saw  a 
young  girl  whose  beauty  fascinated  him.  Well 
enough  he  knew  who  was  the  grey-haired  man 
she  was  with,  Robert  Stuart  of  Fionnamar  in 
Ardlamont;  but  because  of  the  feud  between 
this  man  and  his  own  father,  Ian  Mclan  of 
Tighnacoille  in  Strachurmore,  he  could  not 
break  the  silence.  Sure,  as  old  Dionaid  said  to 
me,  it  is  for  doubting  if  Ian  would  have  spoken 
in  any  case ;  for  he,  the  dreamer,  had  suddenly 
come  upon  his  dream,  had  seen  the  face  that 
haunted  his  visions  by  day  and  night ;  and  that 
seeing,  then  and  there,  was  enough  for  him. 
It  was,  indeed,  characteristic  of  Ian  M6r  that 
he  made  no  inquiry  concerning  them,  when  a 
boat  that  had  been  hanging  about  in  Inchmar- 
nock  Water,  carried  them  away  to  the  Ard- 
lamont shore  ;  and  that  from  that  day  he  made 
no  effort  to  find  if  the  beautiful  girl  were  kith 


238       The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

or  kin  to  "  Fionnamar,"  or  was  but  a  passing 
visitor.  But  already  he  loved  her.  Far  away 
she  was  from  him,  as  the  white  cloud  from  the 
blue  hill  which  holds  the  fugitive  shadow  only. 
Dimly  he  recognised  this.  But  the  hill  can 
love  the  cloud,  as  the  pine  the  wandering  wind, 
as  the  still  tarn  the  leaping  star  in  the  heavens. 
She  became  the  sungold  in  his  life  ;  he  saw  her 
in  every  fair  and  beautiful  thing,  in  the  wave, 
in  the  wind-white  grass,  in  the  light  of  morning 
and  of  gloaming ;  everywhere  he  heard  her 
voice,  or  the  faint  rumour  of  her  coming  feet. 
He  did  not  dream  to  meet  her ;  it  may  be  he 
would  have  gone  up  into  his  lonely  hills  if  he 
had  known  of  her  approach.  He  loved,  then, 
only  the  beautiful  phantom  of  his  mind. 

It  was  from  that  time  that  Ian  M6r,  the 
second  son  of  Ian  Mclan  the  old  minister  in 
Strachurmore,  became  the  poet.  Ever  since  he 
had  left  the  College  in  Glasgow  he  had  worked 
lovingly  and  long  in  prose  and  verse,  with  many 
hopes,  and  a  few  illusory  successes,  content 
that  his  father  left  him  to  his  own  devices,  and 
that  his  brother  Hector  took  upon  himself  all 
the  care  of  Tighnacoille.  But  under  the  new 
influence  that  had  come  into  his  life  a  strange 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun.       239 

thing  happened.  All  his  youthful  ambitions 
became  wild  swans,  and  he  found  himself  with 
one  abiding  desire  :  to  be  a  singer  for  his  own 
people,  his  own  race,  in  their  own  ancient 
language,  —  a  tongue  old  and  deep  and  myste- 
rious as  the  mountain-wind  or  the  sighing  sea. 

One  day,  not  long  after  his  father's  death,  he 
was  near  a  summer-shealing  on  the  upper  slope 
of  Ben  Measach  when  he  heard  a  girl  singing 
an  unfamiliar  Gaelic  song,  as  she  lay  in  the 
heather  watching  the  kye  close  upon  the  hour 
of  the  milking. 

"  Wave,  wave,  green  branches,  wave  me  far  away 

To  where  the  forest  deepens  and  the  hill-winds,  sleeping, 

stay, — 
Where  Peace  doth  fold  her  twilight  wings,  and  through 

the  heart  of  day 
There  goes  the  rumour  of  passing  hours  grown  faint  and 

grey. 

"Wave,  wave,  green  branches,  my  heart  like  a  bird  doth 

hover 

Above  the  nesting-place  your  green-gloom  shadows  cover : 
Oh,  come  to  my  nesting-heart,  come  close,  come  close, 

bend  over, 
Joy  of  my  heart,  my  life,  my  prince,  my  lover  1 " 

There  is  an  incommunicable  music  in  the  long 
slow  flow  of  the  Gaelic  song,  and  in  its  dreamy 


240       The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

monotony.  The  haunting  air  and  words  passed 
into  his  brain.  Something  awoke  there ;  as  the 
sea-wind,  suddenly  striking  a  loch,  will  awake 
echoes  in  remote  corries  on  the  hills. 

Curious,  because  of  a  new  strange  lilt  in  the 
lines,  and  of  a  repressed  intensity  in  the  simple 
Gaelic  words,  he  asked  the  singer  whose  was 
the  song  she  sang.  It  was  then  that,  for  the 
first  time,  he  heard  of  Ethlenn  Stuart. 

That  summer  they  met.  From  the  first  they 
loved.  No  one  could  gainsay  the  beauty  of 
Ethlenn,  with  her  tall,  lithe,  slim  figure,  her 
dark-brown  dusky  hair,  her  gloaming  eyes,  her 
delicate  features,  with,  above  all,  her  radiant 
expression  of  joyous  life.  That  many  heads 
were  shaken  knowingly  or  warningly  because 
of  her,  was  nothing  against  the  fair  lass ;  only, 
there  were  few,  probably  there  was  none,  who 
understood  her.  She  saw  little  of  the  strath- 
folk,  and  when  not  at  home  with  her  invalid 
mother  at  the  cot  among  the  pines  above  Creg- 
gans,  or  upon  the  loch,  was  a  wanderer  upon 
the  hills.  There,  in  the  fresh  mornings,  or  in 
the  drowsy  afternoons,  or  in  the  prolonged  hours 
of  sundown,  often  she  met  Ian.  More  and  more 
dear  they  grew  to  each  other,  till  at  last  they 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun.       241 

cared  to  have  no  other  comrade  than  the  hill- 
wind  that  whispered  through  the  pines  its  mes- 
sage of  joy,  or  the  sunlight  that  came  floodingly 
from  over  the  mountains  in  the  east,  and  ebbed 
in  vast  serenities  of  peace  along  the  hill-crests 
beyond  the  narrow  sea-loch.  Many  of  her 
songs,  many  of  his,  were  made  at  this  time. 
This  is  the  song  of  the  "  Daughter  of  the  Sun  " 
that  he  wrote  to  her  out  of  his  heart,  and  is 
sung  to  this  day.  In  the  original  there  is  the 
swift  flame,  the  consuming  fire,  the  repressed 
passion  which  I  find  it  impossible  to  convey. 
Whoso  has  heard  this  song  of  Ian  Mor,  and 
thrilled  in  the  heart-loud  silence  that  follows  it, 
sung,  in  the  twilight  or  by  the  peats,  by  one  who 
loves  or  has  loved,  only  such  an  one  can  know 


Thou  art  the  Daughter  of  the  Sun, 

Alona  ! 

Even  as  the  sun  in  a  green  place, 
The  light  that  is  upon  thy  face  ! 
When  thou  art  gone  there  is  dusk  on  my  ways, 

Alona  I 

l  Alona  signifies  "  most  beautiful  "  or  "  exquisitely  beau- 
tiful," and  is  at  the  same  time  equivalent  to  "dear  to  me" 
or  "  dear  of  my  heart." 

16 


242      The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

Thy  soul  is  of  sun-fire  wrought  in  day, 

Alona, 

The  white  warm  clay  that  hath  for  name 
Alona,  and  for  word  of  fame 
Ethlenn,  and  is  for  me  a  Flame 
To  burn  against  the  Eternal  Day, 

Alona  1 

The  hills  know  thee,  and  the  green  woods, 

Alona, 

And  the  wide  sea,  and  the  blue  loch,  and  the  stream  i 
On  thy  brow,  Daughter  of  the  Sun,  is  agleam 
The  mystery  of  Dream,  — 

Alona ! 

The  fires  of  the  sun  that  burn  thee, 

Alona, 

Oh,  heart  of  my  heart,  are  in  me ! 
Thy  fire  burns,  thy  flame  killeth,  thy  sea 
Of  light  blazeth  continually, — 
Is  there  no  rest  in  joy,  no  rest,  no  rest  for  me 
Whom  rapture  slayeth  utterly, 

Alona,  Alona  I 

It  was  on  the  eve  of  the  day  he  made  this 
song  to  Ethlenn,  that  he  and  she  met  among  the 
pines  upon  the  lower  slopes  of  Maol-Lde-y-a- 
ghrian.  He  came  upon  her  while  she  lay  full 
length  along  the  bole  of  a  fallen  pine.  For  a 
time  he  stood  looking  upon  her.  The  sunlight, 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun.       243 

flowing  from  above  Ben  Dearg  and  Am  Bua- 
chaille  on  the  west  side  of  the  loch,  streamed 
upon  her  body  as  it  lay  dark  against  the  red 
pine-bole,  and  lay  upon  her  face  in  a  glory. 
The  voice  of  the  wind  among  the  trees  was 
as  the  tide  coming  over  smooth  sands.  The 
cuckoos  were  calling  one  to  another ;  echo-like 
falling  cadences  coming  back  from  the  Wood 
of  Claondiri  on  the  opposite  coast. 

He  hesitated  to  tell  her  what  he  had  to  say ; 
above  all,  to  break  the  spell.  She  was  at  one 
with  nature,  thus.  The  wind  was  her  comrade, 
the  pine-tree  her  brother ;  she  herself  a  flower. 

When  he  leaned  forward  and  kissed  her,  he 
saw  that  her  eyes  were  dreaming  in  the  far 
depths  above  her.  She  smiled,  opened  her  arms 
to  him,  but  did  not  rise. 

"  Aluinn,"  she  whispered,  "  lan-k-ghray, 
Aluinn,  Aluinn ! " 

For  a  long  while  they  stayed  thus  in  silence. 
They  two  and  the  wind ;  all  the  world  fell  away 
from  these  three. 

At  last  Ian  stirred. 

"  Come,  Alona ;  come,  Ethlenn-mdirnean,"  he 
whispered,  with  his  lips  against  her  ear,  under 
the  dusky,  fragrant  shadow  of  her  hair. 


244      The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

Hand  in  hand,  they  passed  beneath  the  pines, 
and  out  upon  the  heather.  As  they  climbed 
Creag'-an-Eich,  in  the  wonderful  afterglow, 
though  it  was  already  less  than  two  hours  short 
of  midnight,  there  were  no  other  sounds  than 
the  deep  wave-murmur  of  the  flowing  air  amid 
the  pine-trees  now  beyond  them,  and  the 
crying  of  the  lapwings.  Even  the  ewes  and 
lambs  were  still.  At  long  intervals  the  cluck- 
ing of  grouse,  or  the  churr  of  a  fern-owl, 
rustled  like  eddies  across  the  calm  of  the 
heather-sea. 

When  they  reached  the  summit  of  Creag'-an- 
Eich,  —  to  some  known  as  Maol-Lae-y-a-ghrian, 
because  of  lan's  songs,  —  they  stood  for  a  while 
speechless. 

Beneath  them  the  land  swam  circling  to  the 
loch.  Save  in  the  shadow  of  the  west,  the 
water  was  like  the  melted  ore  of  the  Tuatha-de- 
Danann,  suspended  so  in  the  flaming  cauldrons 
under  the  mountains  over  against  a  day  that 
shall  come  again.  Beyond,  hill-range  after  hill- 
range  lay  in  long  curves  of  shadowy  amethyst 
deepening  into  purple.  Over  the  most  remote, 
three  stars  seemed  to  drop  silver  fire  through 
the  faint  rose-glow  which  underlay  the  straits 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun.       245 

of  gold  and  crimson  far-spreading  into  immeas- 
urable lagoons  of  quiet  light. 

Behind  them,  where  they  stood  hand  in  hand 
facing  the  light,  were  the  mountains,  purple- 
grey  and  grey-blue:  vast  buttressed  heights 
rising  sheer  and  isolate.  Mass  after  mass, 
peak  after  peak,  the  mountain  sanctuaries  stood 
in  their  dim,  mysterious  majesty. 

"  Ethlenn-Alona,"  said  Ian  at  last,  but  in  a 
voice  so  low  that  the  girl  by  his  side  just  caught 
the  words ;  "  Ethlenn,  we  have  already  given 
all  to  each  other,  and  have  vowed  the  troth 
upon  us  through  life.  But  now  let  us  vow  the 
troth  of  death  also,  for  who  is  it  that  will  be 
knowing  when  the  dark  hour  is  leaping  through 
the  noon  or  stealing  through  the  night." 

So  it  was  there  and  thus  they  vowed  their 
solemn  troth  that  neither  life  nor  death  should 
come  between  them.  The  prayer  that  was  in 
each  heart  rose,  an  invisible  bird,  and  flew  to- 
wards the  slow-receding  seas  of  light.  The 
hill-wind  carried  their  vows  far  and  wide  upon 
the  mountains  they  loved. 

Nor  did  they  know,  as  with  clasped  hands 
they  wandered  down  towards  the  pine-wood, 
that  a  shadow  walked  behind  them,  —  one  who 


246      The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

was  like  Ethlenn,  tall  and  beautiful,  but  with 
her  eyes  wild  and  full  of  a  despairing  pain. 

Now  that  I  have  gone  thus  far  I  should  tell 
their  story  fully ;  but  I  cannot. 

Here  is  what  is  for  knowledge  throughout  the 
glens. 

That  night  Ian  told  Ethlenn  how  he  had 
received  a  mysterious  letter  from  the  distant 
southland  city,  London.  It  purported  to  be 
from  his  brother  Hector,  whose  word  was  that 
he  had  departed  suddenly  into  the  south  coun- 
try, from  Edinburgh,  whither,  as  Ian  knew,  he 
had  lately  gone.  The  writing  was  in  an  un- 
familiar hand.  The  message  was  to  the  effect 
that  Hector  was  ill,  dying ;  that  he  begged  Ian 
to  come  to  him  at  once ;  and  that,  on  his  arrival, 
he  would  be  met  by  a  friend,  a  Stralachlan 
man  at  that,  who  would  take  him  straightway 
to  the  death-bed. 

Well,  it  was  the  long  way  to  London  that  Ian 
M6r  went.  Was  there  never  a  hill,  he  won- 
dered, after  the  Cumberland  fells  were  left  far 
behind,  —  was  there  never  a  hill  in  the  poor 
land? 

But  all  thoughts  of  this  foreign  England  and 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun.       247 

of  the  great  city  he  was  so  eager  to  see,  and  yet 
was  already  weary  of,  went  from  him,  when,  at 
the  station,  he  was  met  by  Roderick  Stuart,  the 
cousin  of  Ethlenn. 

What  did  it  mean  ?  What  was  the  meaning 
of  this  thing?  Why  was  Roderick  Stuart  in 
London,  —  he  who  was  a  small  laird  high  up  in 
Stralachlan  of  Lochfyne ;  he  that  was  the  lover 
of  Ethlenn ;  he  that  had  sworn  to  the  undoing 
of  Ian  M6r,  and  to  the  winning  of  his  cousin 
Ethlenn  after  all  ? 

The  man  came  forward,  with  what  smile  upon 
his  false  lips  could  rise  above  a  heart  so  black. 

"No,"  said  Ian  simply;  —  "no,  we  will  not 
be  shaking  hands,  Roderick  Mhic  Aonghas. 
There  is  that  between  us  of  which  there  is  no 
need  to  speak.  Where  will  my  brother  be? 
If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  the  way  I 
will  go  to  him  alone." 

Stuart  laughed.  "  London  is  n't  Inverary, 
Ian  Mhic  Ian;  no,  nor  yet  Greenock;  no,  nor 
yet  even  Glasgow.  The  place  where  your 
brother  is,  why  it  will  be  miles  and  miles  from 
here.  There  is  a  cab  here  waiting  for  us.  If 
you  wish  to  see  Hector  Mclan  alive  you  must 
not  be  waiting  here,  talking  of  this  and  that." 


248      The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

In  the  long  drive  through  the  streets,  so  un- 
speakably sordid  and  dreary  that  lan's  heart 
bled  for  the  wretched  folk  who  had  to  live  away 
from  the  quiet  hills  and  the  clean  waters,  he 
asked  his  companion  many  questions,  but  with- 
out any  answer  that  gave  him  ease.  Again, 
what  was  the  meaning  of  Roderick  Stuart  being 
dressed  as  though  he  were  a  minister  ?  True, 
he  was  a  man  with  much  money,  so  it  was 
said ;  but  why  was  he  clad  as  though  he  were 
a  minister  ?  Was  it  a  southland  way  ? 

So  sure  at  last  was  he  that  he  was  being 
deceived,  that  he  would  have  then  and  there 
parted  with  the  man  Stuart,  had  it  not  been 
that,  at  that  moment,  the  cab  swerved,  passed 
through  a  gateway  into  a  short  narrow  avenue, 
and  came  to  a  stop  abruptly. 

Almost  immediately  after  they  had  entered 
the  house,  Stuart  was  called  by  a  servant  out 
of  the  room  where  they  waited.  When  he 
came  back,  a  minute  or  two  later,  it  was  with 
a  tall,  heavy-browed,  sullen-eyed  man. 

"  Ian,"  began  Roderick  Stuart  familiarly,  and 
with  a  smile  as  he  noticed  the  angry  look  in 
Ian  Mor's  eyes  ;  "  Ian,  this  is  Dr.  MacManus, 
of  whom  I  have  told  you." 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun.       249 

Ian  made  no  answer,  but  looked  from  one  to 
the  other.  The  tall  man  turned  to  his  com- 
panion :  — 

"Did  you  say  he  was  an  older  or  a  younger 
brother  of  yours,  Mr.  Stuart  ?  " 

"Younger." 

But  here  Ian  M6r  spoke,  frowning  darkly. 

"  I  do  not  know  you,  sir,  and  I  do  not  know 
why  I  am  in  this  house,  if  my  brother  Hector 
is  not  here.  If  he  is,  I  am  wishing  to  go  to 
him  at  once.  As  for  this  man  here,  Roderick 
Stuart,  he  is  no  kith  or  kin  to  me.  My  name 
is  Ian  Mclan,  and  I  am  of  Tigh-na-coille  in 
Strachurmore  of  Lochfyne." 

But  why  should  I  delay  in  telling  that  which 
will  already  be  guessed  ? 

The  man  Stuart  had  prevailed  with  this  Dr. 
MacManus,  whether  by  craft  or  by  bribery,  or 
both ;  and  there  is  no  need  to  say  more  than 
that  Ian  M6r  found,  too  late,  that  he  had  been 
trapped  into  a  private  asylum.1 

i  I  am  not  telling  here  the  story  of  Ian  Mbr.  All  who 
knew  him,  and  many  of  those  who  love  his  songs,  are 
familiar  with  the  piteous  record  of  the  bitter  wrong  that 
was  done  to  him  and  to  Ethlenn  Stuart.  By  a  strange 


250      The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

In  the  months  that  followed  no  word  was 
had  of  him.  His  brother  Hector,  who  had  not 
been  ill  at  all,  and  had  never  gone  south  from 
Edinburgh,  did  all  that  he  could  ;  not  only  by 
inquiries  in  London,  because  of  what  Ethlenn 
had  told  him,  but  also  of  the  steamship-com- 
panies, for  Roderick  Stuart  of  Dubh  Chnoc  in 
Stralachlan  told  him  how  he  had  met  Ian  in 
Glasgow,  and  how  he,  Ian,  had  informed  him 
of  his  intent  to  sail  to  America  and  take  to  a 
new  life  there,  under  a  new  name.  Hector 
believed  so  far,  and  indeed  this  story  grew 
and  was  received.  Only  Ethlenn  knew  that 

coincidence,  the  day  of  his  abrupt  release  was  the  day  be- 
fore Ethlenn's  death,  —  the  day  he  left  London  for  his 
return  to  the  mountain-land  for  which,  as  for  her,  his 
heart  was  sick  unto  death.  The  death  of  Roderick  Stuart 
had  brought  about  his  freedom  ;  but  here  it  is  needless  to 
go  into  details  of  all  that  happened  before  and  after. 

It  was  Ian  Mbr  himself  who  found  her  body,  on  the  eve 
that  followed  the  sunrise  into  which  her  life  had  lapsed, 
as  a  flower  might  give  up  its  perfume.  Nevertheless,  I 
should  add,  the  passion  of  his  love  while  she  lived,  the 
passion  of  his  love  for  her  in  death,  had  more  to  do  with 
the  strange  dream-madness,  or  "ecstasy,"  of  his  after- 
years,  than  even  the  excruciating  mental  suffering  which 
he  endured  through  the  villany  of  Roderick  Stuart. 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun.       251 

the  man  lied.  She  waited,  with  her  heart  in 
leash. 

In  the  sixth  month  of  silence  Ethlenn's  child 
was  born.  With  joy  and  pain  she  spent  long 
hours  looking  into  its  blue  eyes,  seeking  there 
the  clue  to  the  strange  and  terrible  mystery. 

Ah,  it  is  God  only  knows  what  she  learned 
there;  but  one  day  she  put  the  child  hurriedly 
back  to  her  breast,  and  strode  swift  through 
the  pines  to  her  home.  Neither  sorrow  nor 
suffering  had  dimmed  her  beauty.  She  moved 
now  as  a  Bandia,  a  mountain-goddess. 

The  child  she  left  with  a  kinswoman,  Mary 
MacNair,  a  young  widow,  who  took  the  little 
one  to  her  heart  with  sobbing  joy,  because  "of 
her  own  womb  that  had  not  borne  and  of  the 
dead  man  whom  she  had  loved. 

Having  done  this,  Ethlenn  put  off  from 
Creggan  shore  in  a  boat.  The  breeze  came 
down  the  loch,  and  she  sailed  swift  southward. 
When  opposite  the  Glen  of  Dubh  Chnoc  she 
landed.  In  less  than  an  hour  she  was  upon  the 
high  upland  where  Roderick  Stuart  had  his 
home.  The  man  was  not  there.  He  was  up 
on  the  hill,  she  was  told,  —  at  the  shealing  of 
Farlan  Macfarlane  the  shepherd. 


252      The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

When,  at  last,  they  met,  it  was  by  the 
Lochan-na-Mona,  the  deep,  black  tarn  in  the 
moorland. 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  Then 
a  cruel  smile  came  upon  the  man's  face. 

"  It  is  too  late  that  you  are  coming  now, 
Ethlenn  Stuart,  — or  is  it  Ethlenn  Mclan  I 
should  be  saying  ?  " 

She  took  no  notice  of  the  sneer. 

"  I  am  Ethlenn  Mclan.  Do  you  know  why 
I  have  come  ?  " 

"  Well,  as  for  that,  my  lass  —  " 

"  I  have  come  to  kill  you." 

"You — you!  Ah,  by  the  black  stone  in 
lona,  is  that  so  ?  Sure,  it  is  terrified  I  ought 
to  be ! " 

But  suddenly  all  the  surface  courage  of  the 
man  sank.  He  saw  somewhat  in  Ethlenn's 
eyes  which  put  the  fear  upon  him. 

She  drew  closer.  The  eyes  in  her  death-pale 
face  were  like  dark  water-lilies  afloat  on  wan 
water. 

"  I  did  not  know  in  what  way  God  would 
give  you  over  into  my  hands,  but  now  I  know, 
Roderick  Mhic  Aonghas." 

"  I  am  innocent,   Ethlenn   Co-ogha  —  I   did 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun.       253 

not  do  it  —  besides,  he  —  he  —  he  is  not  dead  — 
and  —  " 

But  with  a  spring  she  was  upon  him.  He 
stumbled,  fell,  half-rose ;  with  a  swift  whirl  she 
swung  him  off  his  balance.  The  next  moment 
he  felt  headlong,  backward,  into  the  deep  pool. 

Ethlenn  stood  for  a  moment,  watching. 
Then  she  snatched  the  iron-shod  staff  he  had 
dropped.  If  he  rose,  it  must  be  to  his  death. 
But  whether  caught  in  the  trailing  weeds,  or 
for  some  other  reason  not  to  be  known,  Rode- 
rick Stuart  never  rose.  There,  in  time,  his 
body  was  found ;  and  the  strathfolk  said  that 
he  had  fallen  there,  heavy  with  the  drink  that 
was  always  upon  him  of  late,  and  had  been 
drowned  there  in  the  dark  and  the  silence. 

Ethlenn  waited  by  the  tarn  till,  from  its 
unrevealing  depths,  bubble  after  bubble  as- 
cended ;  waited  till  not  the  smallest  air-bubble 
quivered  upon  the  smooth  blackness  of  the 
water ;  waited  till  the  lapwings  of  the  gloaming 
flew  overhead,  crying  mournfully.  Then,  at 
last,  she  turned,  and  went  down  through  the 
shadowy  woods  to  the  place  where  her  boat 
was. 

It  was  moonlight  when,   three  hours  later, 


254      The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

she  opened  the  door  of  the  cottage.  Her 
mother  was  awake,  and  called  to  her. 

"  Have  you  had  good  news,  Ethlenn,  my 
bonnie  ?  "  she  whispered,  as  she  drew  the  beauti- 
ful face  down  to  her  own. 

The  girl  stared  at  her  questioningly. 

"  I  am  asking  it,  dear,  because  of  the  glad 
light  that  is  in  your  eyes.  Perhaps  it  is  only  a 
good  deed  that  you  have  done  ?  " 

"  Ay,  mother  dear,  that  is  it.  It  is  because 
of  a  good  deed  that  I  have  done.  But  do  not 
speak  to  me  about  it,  now  or  later.  I  am  glad, 
who  can  never  be  glad  again  till  I  see  Ian  face 
to  face." 

And  from  that  day  forth  Ethlenn  went  to 
and  fro  as  one  in  a  dream.  Some  thought 
that  her  sorrow  had  crazed  her ;  others  that  a 
lifelong  melancholy  had  come  to  her  out  of 
her  grief.  Once  only  she  was  heard  to  laugh  : 
when  a  farmer  from  Stralachlan  urged  her  to 
write  a  monody  on  Roderick  Stuart,  whose 
untimely  death  had  shocked  the  people  of  the 
strath. 

More  than  ever  she  haunted  the  pinewood, 
the  hills,  or  the  loch.  Often  she  was  seen, 
singing  low  to  her  baby,  or  raising  it  on  high  to 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun.       255 

catch  the  wind  or  the  sun,  calling  the  boy  her 
Ian,  her  poet,  her  blossom  of  joy. 

In  the  late  heats  she  crossed  often  to  the 
steep  woodlands  at  the  Ceann-More,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  loch.  At  one  rocky  head- 
land, crowned  with  a  solitary  pine,  she  dreamed 
through  long  hours.  It  was  here  that  she  and 
Ian  had  spent  one  memorable  golden  day. 
Lying  here,  she  could  still  feel  his  breath  warm 
against  her  face,  could  almost  feel  his  lips  upon 
her  own.  Nearly  all  her  last  songs  were  made 
at  this  spot,  Creagaleen. 

So  it  was  that,  after  many  weeks,  the  steep, 
rocky,  and  densely  wooded  shore  which  ran  be- 
tween two  promontories  became  known  to  the 
fish  erf  oik  of  Kenmore  and  Strachur  as  Ard- 
Ethlenn. 

Only  once  did  she  take  the  child  with  her 
when  she  went  to  Creagaleen.  It  was  on  that 
day  she  made  this  song  to  Ian  ban,  her  little 
boy,  her  Ian  who  was  of  Ian.  It  is  called,  in 
the  Gaelic,  The  Two  fans. 

Are  these  your  eyes,  Ian, 

That  look  into  mine  ? 
Is  this  smile,  this  laugh 

Thine  ? 


256      The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

Heart  of  me,  dear, 

O  pulse  of  my  heart, 
This  is  our  child,  our  child  — 

And  —  we  apart ! 

Wrought  of  thy  life,  Ian, 

Wrought  in  my  womb, 
Never  to  feel  thy  kiss  I  — 

Ah,  bitter  doom  1 

Live,  live,  thou  laughing  boy, 

We  meet  again  1 
Here  do  we  part,  we  twain ; 
I  to  my  death-sweet  pain, 

Thou  to  thy  span  of  joy. 

Hush,  hush ;  within  thine  eyes 

His  eyes  I  see. 
Sure,  death  is  Paradise 
If  so  my  soul  can  be, 

Ian,  with  thee ! 

Here,  too,  were  made  some  of  those  songs  of 
passionate  love  which  have  never  been  collected, 
but  linger  only  in  the  hearts  of  those  who 
learned  them  long  years  ago.  Two  of  these  I 
have  in  the  writing  of  Ian  M6r,  who  copied 
them  for  me  from  the  original  in  "  The  Book 
of  My  Heart,"  as  the  small  MS.  volume  was 
called  which  was  found  among  Ethlenn's 
papers. 


The  Daughter  of  the  Snn.       257 
I. 

His  face  was  glad  as  dawn  to  me, 
His  breath  was  sweet  as  dusk  to  me, 
His  eyes  were  burning  flames  to  me, 

Shule,  Shule,  Shule,  agrhh  ! 

The  broad  noon-day  was  night  to  me, 
The  full-moon  night  was  dark  to  me, 
The  stars  whirled  and  the  poles  span 
The  hour  God  took  him  far  from  me. 

Perhaps  he  dreams  in  heaven  now, 
Perhaps  he  doth  in  worship  bow, 
A  white  flame  round  his  foam-white  brow 
Shule,  Shule,  SAule,  agrhh! 

I  laugh  to  think  of  him  like  this, 
Who  once  found  all  his  joy  and  bliss 
Against  my  heart,  against  my  kiss, 

Shule,  Shule,  Shule,  agrhh .' 

Star  of  my  joy,  art  still  the  same 
Now  thou  hast  gotten  a  new  name, 
Pulse  of  my  heart,  my  Blood,  my  Flame, 

Shule,  Shule,  Shule,  agrhh  ! 

II. 

He  laid  his  dear  face  next  to  mine, 
His  eyes  aflame  burned  close  to  mine, 
His  heart  to  mine,  his  lips  to  mine, 
Oh,  he  was  mine,  all  mine,  all  mine. 
I? 


258      The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

Drunk  with  old  wine  of  love  I  was, 
Drunk  as  the  wild-bee  in  the  grass 
Singing  his  honey-mad  sweet  bass, 
Drunk,  drunk  with  wine  of  love  I  was! 

His  lips  of  life  to  me  were  fief, 
Before  him  I  was  but  a  leaf 
Blown  by  the  wind,  a  shaken  leaf 
Yea,  as  the  sickle  reaps  the  sheaf, 

My  Grief  I 
He  reaped  me  as  a  gathered  sheaf ! 

His  to  be  gathered,  his  the  bliss, 
But  not  a  greater  bliss  than  this  ! 
All  of  the  empty  world  to  miss 
For  wild  redemption  of  his  kiss  ! 

My  Grief  I 

For  hell  was  lost,  though  heaven  was  brief 

Sphered  in  the  universe  of  thy  kiss,  — 

So  cries  to  thee  thy  fallen  leaf, 

Thy  gathered  sheaf, 

Lord  of  my  life,  my  Pride,  my  Chief, 

My  Grief! 

It  was  midway  in  the  heat-wave  of  a  rainless 
September  that,  in  lan's  words,  the  Daughter 
of  the  Sun  "went  away  with  the  hill-wind 
through  the  green  silences." 

One  evening  she  sailed  across  the  loch,  and 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun.       259 

drifted  slow  with  the  tide  through  the  green 
depths  beneath  Ard-Ethlenn.  At  Creagaleen 
she  moored  the  boat,  and  climbed  the  bracken- 
covered  boulders.  Under  the  pine  where  she 
and  Ian  had  first  known  the  passion  of  their 
love,  she  lay  down :  strangely  weary  now.  The 
moon  rose  over  the  Cowal,  transmuting  the 
velvety  shadows  on  the  hills  into  a  fluid  light. 
The  lingering  gloaming,  the  moonshine,  pale 
stars  to  north  and  south,  deep  calms  of  shadow, 
one  and  all  wrought  the  loch  to  the  beauty  of 
dream.  Thus  might  the  bride  of  Manannan, 
she  who  was  a  lovely  sea-loch,  have  seemed  to 
him,  when  he  came  in  from  the  ocean  upon  his 
chariot,  the  flowing  tide. 

To  have  loved  supremely!  After  all,  the 
green,  sweet  world  had  been  good  to  her,  its 
daughter.  She  had  loved  and  been  loved,  with 
the  passion  of  passion.  Nothing  in  the  world 
could  take  away  that  joy;  not  the  death  of  Ian 
Mor,  —  of  which  now  there  could  be  no  longer 
any  doubt;  not  sorrow  by  day  and  grief  by 
night;  not  the  mysterious  powers  themselves 
that  men  called  God,  and  that  moved  and  lived 
and  had  their  blind  will  behind  the  blowing 
wind  and  the  rising  sap,  behind  the  drifting 


260      The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

leaf  and  the  granite  hills,  behind  the  womb  of 
woman  and  the  mind  of  man,  behind  the 
miracle  of  day  and  night,  behind  life,  behind 
death. 

It  was  hers, — all  hers.  To  have  known  this 
wonderful  happiness  was  in  truth  to  be,  as  Ian 
had  often  called  her,  a  Princess  of  the  World. 
How  gladly  she  would  have  lived  through  the 
long  years  with  him,  she  thought;  but,  since 
that  was  not  to  be,  how  gladly  she  forfeited  all 
else! 

All  that  night  she  lay  there,  under  the  pine 
tree,  listening  to  the  lapping  of  the  tide  in  the 
hollows  and  crevices  beneath. 

It  was  for  peace,  too,  to  know  that  she  had 
killed  Roderick  Stuart.  Perhaps  Ian  knew 
that  his  murderer  lay  in  that  black  hill-tarn. 
That  were  well.  She  would  have  killed  him, 
of  course,  whatever  had  happened ;  but  it  was 
better  that  he  was  delivered  over  to  her,  then, 
there,  in  that  way.  It  was  a  good  law :  a  life 
for  a  life.  The  minister  said  "  No  " ;  and  the 
people  echoed  "No";  but  in  the  human  heart 
it  was  always  "Yes."  Ian  was  the  tenderest 
human  being  —  man,  woman,  or  child  —  she 
had  ever  known ;  but,  sure,  he  too  would  have 


The  Daughter  of  the  Sun.       261 

slain  Roderick  Mhic  Aonghas ;  ay,  sure,  that 
was  for  the  knowing.  He  would  love  her  the 
better  when  they  met  again  in  the  shadow  of 
the  grave,  because  of  the  deed  she  had  done. 
Of  old,  no  man  or  woman  of  heroic  soul  suffered 
the  death-wrong  to  pass  without  the  death-eric. 
And  who  are  the  blind  sheep  of  to-day  that 
follow  new  shepherds  ?  Do  they  know  any  whit 
more  than  did  the  mountain-folk  and  the  sea- 
farers in  the  days  of  old  ? 

Towards  dawn  the  tide  was  on  the  ebb. 
Ethlenn  knew  that  it  was  ebb-tide  also  in  her 
life. 

At  sunrise  she  rose,  stretched  out  her  arms, 
and  called  Ian  thrice.  She  heard  the  gulls  and 
skuas  crying  upon  the  weedy  promontories  ;  on 
the  loch  the  mackerel-shoals  made  a  rustling 
noise ;  the  hill-wind  sang  a  far-off  song :  but 
no  answer  came  from  him  whom  she  called. 

The  sunlight  was  about  her  like  a  garment: 
as  a  consuming  flame,  rather,  it  was  within  her 
and  around  her. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  light ;  her  body  thrilled. 
Slowly  she  turned.  A  smile  came  upon  her 
face.  She  stooped,  kneeled,  and  lay  down  in 
the  green-gold  gloom  beneath  the  pine. 


262      The  Daughter  of  the  Sun. 

41  Ian !  "  she  whispered ;  "  Ian,  Aluinn,  my 
Poet,  my  Mountain-Lover,  Ian,  Ian  !  " 

For  it  was  Death  that  lay  there,  waiting  com- 
radely ;  but  he  had  come  in  the  guise  of  Ian 
M6r. 


The   Birdeen. 


SOME  other  time  I  will  tell  the  story  of  Isla 
and  Morag  Mclan:  Isla  that  was  the  foster- 
brother  and  chief  friend  of  Ian  Mclan  the 
mountain-poet,  known  as  Ian  of  the  Hills,  or 
simply  as  Ian  M6r,  because  of  his  great  height 
and  the  tireless  strength  that  was  his.  Of 
Morag,  too,  there  is  a  story  of  the  Straths, 
sweet  as  honey  of  the  heather,  and  glad  as  the 
breeze  that,  blowing  across  it  in  summer,  waves 
the  purple  into  white-o'-the-wind  and  sea-change 
amethyst. 

Isla  was  seven  years  older  than  Ian  M6r,  and 
had  been  seven  years  married  to  Morag,  when 
the  sorrow  of  their  friend's  life  came  upon  him. 
Of  that  matter  I  speak  elsewhere. 

They  were  happy,  Isla  and  Morag.  Though 
both  were  of  Strachurmore  of  Loch  Fyne,  they 
lived  at  a  small  hill-farm  on  the  west  side  of  the 


264  The  Birdeen. 

upper  fjord  of  Loch  Long,  and  within  sight  of 
Arrochar,  where  it  sits  among  its  mountains. 
They  could  not  see  the  fantastic  outline  of 
"The  Cobbler,"  because  of  a  near  hill  that 
shut  them  off,  though  from  the  loch  it  was 
visible  and  almost  upon  them.  But  they  could 
watch  the  mists  on  Ben  Arthur  and  Ben  Mais- 
each,  and  when  a  flying  drift  of  mackerel-sky 
spread  upward  from  Ben  Lomond,  that  was  but 
a  few  miles  eastward  as  the  crow  flies,  they 
could  tell  of  the  good  weather  that  was  sure. 

Before  the  end  of  the  first  year  of  their  mar- 
riage, deep  happiness  came  to  them.  "  The 
Birdeen"  was  their  noon  of  joy.  When  the 
child  came,  Morag  had  one  regret  only,  that  a 
boy  was  not  hers,  for  she  longed  to  see  Isla  in 
the  child  that  was  his.  But  Isla  was  glad,  for 
now  he  had  two  dreams  in  his  life  :  Morag  whom 
he  loved  more  and  more,  and  the  little  one  whom 
she  had  borne  to  him,  and  was  for  him  a  mystery 
and  joy  against  the  dark  hours  of  the  dark  days 
that  must  be. 

They  named  her  Eilidh.  One  night,  in  front 
of  the  peats,  and  before  her  time  was  come, 
Morag,  sitting  with  Isla  and  Ian  M6r,  dreamed 
of  the  birthing.  It  was  dark,  save  for  the  warm 


The  Birdeen.  265 

redness  of  the  peat-glow.  There  was  no  other 
light,  and  in  the  dusky  corners  the  obscure  vel- 
vety things  that  we  call  shadows  moved  and  had 
their  own  life  and  were  glad.  Outside,  the  hill- 
wind  was  still  at  last,  after  a  long  wandering 
moaning  that  had  not  ceased  since  its  westering, 
for,  like  a  wailing  hound,  it  had  followed  the 
sun  all  day.  A  soft  rain  fell.  The  sound  of  it 
was  for  peace. 

Isla  sat  forward,  his  chin  in  his  hands  and  his 
elbows  on  his  knees.  He  was  dreaming,  too. 
"  Morag,"  "  Isla,"  deep  love,  deep  mystery,  the 
child  that  was  already  here,  and  would  soon  be 
against  the  breast ;  these  were  the  circuit  of  his 
thoughts.  Sure,  Morag,  sweet  and  dear  as  she 
was,  was  now  more  dear,  more  sweet.  "  Green 
life  to  her,"  he  murmured  below  his  breath, 
"  and  in  her  heart,  joy  by  day  and  peace  by 
night." 

Ian  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  ingle,  and  looked 
now  at  one  and  now  at  the  other,  and  then  may- 
hap into  the  peat-flame  or  among  the  shadows. 
He  saw  what  he  saw.  Who  knows  what  is  in  a 
poet's  mind  ?  The  echo  of  the  wind  that  was 
gone  was  there,  and  the  sound  of  the  rain  and 
the  movement  and  colour  of  the  fire,  and  some- 


266  The  Birdeen. 

thing  out  of  the  earth  and  sea  and  sky,  and  great 
pitifulness  and  tenderness  for  women  and  child- 
ren, and  love  of  men  and  of  birds  and  beasts, 
and  of  the  green  lives  that  were  to  him  not  less 
wonderful  and  intimate.  And  Ian,  thinking, 
knew  that  the  thoughts  of  Isla  and  Morag  were 
drifting  through  his  mind  too ;  so  that  he  smiled 
with  his  eyes  because  of  the  longing  and  joy  in 
the  life  of  the  man,  his  friend;  and  looked 
through  a  mist  of  unshed  tears  at  Morag,  be- 
cause of  the  other  longing  that  shone  in  her  eyes, 
and  of  the  thinness  of  the  hands  now,  and  of 
the  coming  and  going  of  the  breath  like  a  bird 
tired  after  a  long  flight.  He  was  troubled,  too, 
with  the  fear  and  the  wonder  that  came  to  him 
out  of  the  hidden  glooms  of  her  soul. 

It  was  Ian  who  broke  the  stillness,  though 
for  sure  his  low  words  were  parts  of  the  peat- 
rustle  and  the  dripping  rain  and  the  wash  of  the 
sea-loch,  where  it  twisted  like  a  black  adder 
among  the  hills,  and  was  now  quick  with  the 
tide. 

"  But  if  the  birdeen  be  after  you,  Morag,  and 
not  after  Isla,  what  will  you  be  for  calling  it  ?  " 

Morag  started,  glanced  at  him  with  her  flame- 
lit  eyes,  and  flushed.  Then,  with  a  low  laugh, 
her  whispered  answer  came. 


The  Birdeen.  267 

"  Now  it  is  a  true  thing,  Ian,  that  you  are  a 
wizard.  Isla  has  often  said  that  you  can  hear 
the  wooing  of  the  trees  and  the  flowers,  but  sure 
I  'm  thinking  you  could  hear  the  very  stones 
speak,  or  at  least  know  what  is  in  their  hearts. 
How  did  you  guess  that  was  the  thought  I  was 
having  ?  " 

"  It  was  for  the  knowing,  lassikin." 

"  Ian,  it  is  a  wife  you  should  have,  and  a  child 
upon  your  knee  to  put  its  lips  against  yours,  and 
to  make  your  heart  melt  because  of  its  little 
wandering  hands." 

Ian  made  no  sign,  though  his  pulse  leaped, 
for  this  was  ever  the  longing  that  lay  waiting 
behind  heart  and  brain,  and  thrilled  each  along 
the  wise,  knowing  nerves,  —  our  wise  nerves  that 
were  attuned  long,  long  ago,  and  play  to  us  a 
march  against  the  light,  or  down  into  the  dark, 
and  we  unwitting,  and  not  knowing  the  ancient 
rune  of  the  heritage  that  the  blood  sings,  an 
ancient,  ancient  song.  Who  plays  the  tune  to 
which  our  dancing  feet  are  led  ?  It  is  behind 
the  mist,  that  antique  strain  to  which  the  hills 
rose  in  flame  and  marl,  and  froze  slowly  into 
granite  silence,  and  to  which  the  soul  of  man 
crept  from  the  things  of  the  slime  to  the  palaces 


268  The  Birdeen. 

of  the  brain.  It  is  for  the  hearing,  that ;  in  the 
shells  of  the  human.  Who  knows  the  under- 
song of  the  tides  in  the  obscure  avenues  of  the 
sea?  Who  knows  the  old  immemorial  tidal- 
murmur  along  the  nerves,  —  along  the  nerves 
even  of  a  new-born  child  ? 

Seeing  that  he  was  silent,  Morag  added  :  "  Ay, 
Ian  dear,  it  is  a  wife  and  a  child  you  must  have. 
Sure  no  man  that  has  all  the  loving  little  names 
you  give  to  us  can  do  without  us  !  " 

"  Well,  well,  Morag-aghray,  the  hour  waits, 
as  they  say  out  in  the  isles.  But  you  have  not 
given  me  the  answer  to  what  I  asked  ?  " 

"  And  it  is  no  answer  that  I  have.  Isla !  — 
Isla,  if  a  girl  it  is  to  be,  you  would  be  for  liking 
the  little  one  to  be  called  Morag,  because  of 
me ;  but  that  I  would  not  like  ;  no,  no,  I  would 
not.  Is  it  forgetting,  you  are,  what  old  Muim' 
Mary  said,  that  a  third  Morag  in  line,  like  a  third 
Sheumais,  would  be  born  in  the  shadow,  would 
have  the  gloom  ?  " 

"  For  sure,  muirnean;  it  is  not  you  or  I  that 
would  forget  that  thing.  Well,  since  there  's 
Morag  that  was  your  mother,  and  Morag  that 
is  you,  there  can  be  no  third.  But  it  is  the  same 
with  Muireall  that  was  the  name  of  my  mother 


The  Birdeen.  269 

and  of  the  mother  before  her.  See  here  now, 
dear,  let  Ian  have  the  naming,  if  a  girl  it  be, — 
for  all  three  of  us  know  that,  if  a  boy  it  is,  his 
name  will  be  Ian.  So  now,  mo-charaid,  what  is 
the  name  that  will  be  upon  the  wean  ?  " 

"  IVean"  repeated  Ian,  puzzled  for  a  moment 
because  of  the  unfamiliar  word  in  the  Gaelic, 
"  ah  sure,  yes :  well,  but  it  is  Morag  who  knows 
best." 

"  No,  no,  Ian.  The  naming  is  to  be  with  you. 
What  names  of  women  do  you  love  best  ?  " 

"  Morag." 

"  Ah,  you  know  well  that  is  not  a  true  thing, 
but  only  a  saying  for  the  saying.  Tell  me  true ; 
what  name  do  you  love  best  ?  " 

"  Mona  I  like,  and  Lora,  and  Silis  too ;  and 
of  the  old,  old  names,  it 's  Brighid  I  am  loving, 
and,  too,  Dearduil  (Darthula)  and  Malmhin 
(Afalveeti) ;  but  of  all  names  dear  to  me,  and 
sweet  in  my  ears,  it  is  Eilidh  (Ei'-lee)" 

And  so  it  was.  When,  in  the  third  week 
after  that  night,  the  child  was  born,  and  a 
woman-child  at  that,  it  was  called  Eilidh.  But 
the  first  thing  that  Ian  said  when  he  entered 
the  house  after  the  birthing  was,  — 


270  The  Birdeen. 

"  How  is  the  birdeen  ?  " 

And  from  that  day  Eilidh  was  "  the  Birdeen," 
oftenest,  —  even  with  Isla  and  Morag. 

Of  the  many  songs  that  Ian  made  to  Eilidh 
here  is  one  :  — 

Eilidh,  Eilidh,  Eilidh,  dear  to  me,  dear  and  sweet, 

In  dreams  I  am  hearing  the  noise  of  your  little  running 

feet, — 

The  noise  of  your  running  feet  that  like  the  sea-hoofs  beat 
A  music  by  day  and  night,  Eilidh,  on  the  sands  of  my 

heart,  my  Sweet ! 

Eilidh,  blue  i'  the  eyes,  as  all  babe-children  are, 

And  white  as  the  canna  that  blows  with   the  hill-breast 

wind  afar, 

Whose  is  the  light  in  thine  eyes,  the  light  of  a  star,  a  star 
That  sitteth  supreme  where  the  starry  lights  of  heaven  a 

glory  are ! 

Eilidh,   Eilidh,  Eilidh,  put  off  your  wee  hands  from  the 

heart  o'  me, 
It  is  pain  they  are  making  there,  where  no  more  pain 

should  be ; 
For  little  running  feet,  an'  wee  white  hands,  an*  croodlin, 

as  of  the  sea, 
Bring  tears  to  my  eyes,  Eilidh,  tears,  tears,  out  of  the  heart 

o'  me  — 

Mo  lennav-a-chree, 

Mo  lennav-a-chree  I 


The  Birdeen. 


271 


This  was  for  himself,  and  because  of  what 
was  in  his  heart.  But  he  made  songs  to  the 
-Birdeen  herself.  Some  were  as  simple-myster- 
ious as  a  wayside  flower ;  others  were  strange, 
and  with  a  note  in  them  that  all  who  know  the 
Songs  of  Ian  will  recognise.  Here  is  one :  — 

Lennavan-mo, 

Lennavan-mo, 

Who  is  it  swinging  you  to  and  fro, 

With  a  long  low  swing  and  a  sweet  low  croon, 

And  the  loving  words  of  the  mother's  rune? 

Lennavan-mo, 
Lennavan-mo, 

Who  is  it  swinging  you  to  and  fro  ? 
I  'm  thinking  it  is  an  angel  fair, 

The  Angel  that  looks  on  the  gulf  from  the  lowest  stair 
And  swings  the  green  world  upward  by  its  leagues  of  sun- 
shine-hair. 

Lennavan-mo, 

Lennavan-mo, 

Who  is  it  swings  you  and  the  Angel  to  and  fro  ? 

It  is  He  whose  faintest  thought  is  a  world  afar, 

It  is  He  whose  wish  is  a  leaping  seven-moon'd  star, 

It  is  He,  Lennavan-mo, 

To  whom  you  and  I  and  all  things  flow. 

Lennavan-mo, 
Lennavan-mo, 


272  The  Birdeen. 

It  is  only  a  little  wee  lass  you  are,  Eilidh-mo-ciiree, 

But  as  this  wee  blossom  has  roots  in  the  depths  of  the  sky, 

So  you  are  at  one  with  the  Lord  of  Eternity,  — 

Bonnie  wee  lass  that  you  are, 

My  morning-star, 

Eilidh-mo-chree,  Lennavan-mo, 

Lennavan-mo ! 

Once  more  let  me  give  a  song  of  his,  this 
time  also,  like  "  Leanabhan-Mo,"  of  those  writ- 
ten while  Eilidh  was  still  a  breast-babe. 

Eilidh,  Eilidh, 

My  bonnie  wee  lass ; 
The  winds  blow 

And  the  hours  pass. 

But  never  a  wind 

Can  do  thee  wrong, 
Brown  Birdeen,  singing 

Thy  bird-heart  song. 

And  never  an  hour 

But  has  for  thee 
Blue  of  the  heaven 

And  green  of  the  sea,  — 

Blue  for  the  hope  of  thee, 

Eilidh,  Eilidh; 
Green  for  the  joy  of  thee, 

Eilidh,  Eilidh. 


The  Birdeen.  273 

Swing  in  thy  nest,  then, 

Here  on  my  heart, 
Birdeen,  Birdeen, 

Here  on  my  heart, 

Here  on  my  heart  1 

But  Eilidh  was  "  the  Birdeen  "  not  only  when 
she  could  be  tossed  high  in  the  air  in  lan's 
strong  arms,  or  could  toddle  to  him  from  claar 
to  stool  and  from  stool  to  chair ;  not  only  when 
she  could  go  long  walks  with  him  upon  the 
hills  above  Loch  Long;  but  when,  as  a  grown 
lass  of  twenty,  she  was  so  fair  to  see  that  the 
countryside  smiled  when  it  saw  her,  as  at  the 
first  sunflood  swallow,  or  as  at  the  first  calling 
across  dewy  meadows  of  the  cuckoo  after  long 
days  of  gloom. 

She  was  tall  and  slim,  with  a  flower-like  way 
•with  her :  the  way  of  the  flower  in  the  sunlight, 
of  the  wave  on  the  sea,  of  the  tree-top  in  the 
wind.  Her  changing  hazel  eyes,  now  grey- 
green,  now  dusked  with  sea-gloom  or  a  violet 
shadowiness ;  her  wonderful  arched  eyebrows, 
dark  so  that  they  seemed  black ;  the  beautiful 
bonnie  face  of  her,  with  her  mobile  mouth  and 
white  flawless  teeth ;  the  ears  that  lay  against 
the  tangle  of  her  sun-brown  shadowy  hair,  like 
18 


274  The  Birdeen. 

pink  shells  on  a  drift  of  seaweed ;  the  exquisite 
poise  of  head  and  neck  and  body  :  are  not  all 
these  things  to  be  read  of  her  in  the  poems  of 
Ian  M6r?  Her  voice,  too,  was  sweet  against 
the  ears  as  the  singing  of  hillside  burns.  But 
most  she  was  loved  for  this  :  that  she  was  ever 
fresh  as  the  dawn,  young  as  the  morning,  and 
alive  in  every  fibre  with  the  joy  of  life.  The 
old  dreamed  they  were  young  again,  when  she 
was  with  them;  the  weary  opened  their  hearts, 
because  she  was  sunshine  ;  the  young  were  glad 
and  believed  that  all  things  might  be.  Who 
can  tell  the  many  names  of  the  Birdeen  ?  She 
was  called  Sunshine,  Sunbeam,  Way  o'  the 
Wind,  and  a  score  more  of  lovely  and  endearing 
names.  But  to  every  one  there  was  one  name 
that  was  common,  the  Birdeen. 

"  What  has  she  done  to  be  so  famous,  both 
through  Ian  M6r  and  others,"  was  often  said  of 
her  when,  in  later  years,  the  first  few  threads  of 
grey  streaked  the  bonnie  hair  that  was  her  pride. 
What  has  she  done,  this  Eilidh,  save  what  other 
women  do?  Ah,  well,  it  is  not  Eilidh's  story  I 
am  telling;  and  she  living  yet,  and  like  to  live 
till  the  young  heart  of  her  is  still  at  last.  It 
will  be  the  going  of  a  sunbeam,  that. 


The  Birdeen.  275 

But  this  is  for  the  knowing,  and,  sure,  can  be 
said.  She  loved  the  green  world  with  a  deep 
enduring  love.  Earth,  sea,  and  sky  were  com- 
radely with  her,  as  with  few  men  and  fewer 
women.  And  she  loved  men  and  women  and 
children  just  as  Ian  M6r  loved  them,  and  that 
was  a  way  not  far  from  the  loving  way  that  the 
Son  of  Man  had,  for  it  was  tender  and  true  and 
heeding  little  the  evil,  but  rejoicing  with  laughter 
and  tears  over  the  good.  Then,  too,  there  is 
this :  she  loved  the  man  to  whom  she  gave  her- 
self, with  deep  passion,  that  was  warm  against 
all  chill  of  change  and  time  and  death  itself. 
How  few  of  whom  even  this  much  can  be  said  ? 
For  deep  passion  is  rare,  so  rare  that  men  have 
debased  the  flawless  image  to  the  service  of  a 
base  coinage.  She  gave  him  love,  and  passion, 
and  the  longing  of  her  woman's  heart;  and  she 
was  the  flame  that  was  in  his  brain,  for  he,  too, 
like  Ian  M6r,  was  a  poet  and  dreamer.  Then, 
after  having  given  joy  and  strength  and  the 
flower  of  her  life,  so  that  he  had  the  brain  and 
the  heart  of  two  lives,  she  gave  him  the  supreme 
gift  she  had  for  the  giving,  and  that  was  their 
child,  that  is  called  Aluinn  because  of  his  beauty, 
and  is  now  the  poet  of  a  new  day. 

When  she  was  married  to  the  man  whose  love 


276  The  Birdeen. 

for  her  was  almost  worship,  Ian  Mor  said  this 
to  him :  "  Be  proud,  for  she  who  has  filled  you 
with  deep  meanings  and  new  powers,  is  herself 
a  proud  Queen  in  whose  service  you  must  either 
live  or  die  with  joy." 

And  to  Eilidh  herself  he  said,  in  a  written 
word  he  gave  her  to  take  away  with  her: 
"  Rhythms  of  the  music  of  love  for  your  brain, 
white-wing'd  thoughts  for  the  avenues  of  your 
heart,  and  the  song  of  the  White  Merle  be 
there ! "  And  the  Birdeen  was  glad  at  that, 
for  she  knew  Ian,  and  all  that  he  meant,  and 
she  would  rather  have  had  that  word  than  any 
treasure  of  men. 

To  me,  long  years  afterward,  he  said  this: 
"  I  have  known  two  women  that  were  of  the  old 
race  of  the  Tuatha  De-Danann.  They  were  as 
one,  though  she  with  whom  my  life  rose  and  my 
life  went  was  Ethlenn,  and  the  other  was  Eilidh, 
the  Birdeen  at  whose  birthing  I  was,  and  who  is 
comrade  and  friend  to  me,  more  than  any  man 
has  been  or  any  woman.  Of  each,  this  is  my 
word  :  '  A  woman  beautiful,  to  be  loved,  hon- 
oured, revered,  ay,  scarce  this  side  idolatry  ;  but 
no  weakling ;  made  of  heroic  stuff,  of  elemental 
passions ;  strong  to  endure,  but  strong  also  to 
conquer  and  maintain.' " 


The  Birdeen.  277 

Of  what  one  who  must  be  nameless  wrote  to 
her  I  have  no  right  to  speak,  but  here  is  one 
verse  from  his  "  Song  of  my  Heart,"  ill-clad  by 
me  in  this  cold  English  out  of  the  tender  Gaelic 
that  has  won  him  the  name  "  Mouth  o'  Honey." 
It  is  in  prose  I  must  give  it,  for  I  can  find  or 
make  no  rhythm  to  catch  that  strange  sea- 
cadence  of  his :  — 

"  Come  to  my  life  that  is  already  yours,  and  at  one  with 

you : 

Come  to  my  blood  that  leaps  because  of  you, 
Come  to  my  heart  that  holds  you,  Eilidh, 
Come  to  my  heart  that  holds  you  as  the  green  earth  clasps 

and  holds  the  sunlight, 
Come  to  me  !  Come  to  me,  Eilidh  !  " 

But  still  — but  still  — "What  has  she  done, 
this  Eilidh,  save  what  other  women  do?" 

Sure,  you  must  ask  this  elsewhere  than  of 
me.  I  know  no  reason  for  it  other  than  what 
I  have  said.  She  was,  and  is,  "the  Birdeen." 
"  Green  life  to  her,  green  song  to  her,  green  joy 
tp  her,"  the  old  wish  of  Ian  at  her  naming,  has 
been  fulfilled  indeed.  Why,  for  that  matter, 
should  she  be  called  "the  Birdeen"?  There 
are  other  women  as  fair  to  see,  as  sweet  and 
true,  as  dear  to  men  and  women.  Why  ?  Sure, 
for  that,  why  was  Helen,  Helen ;  or  Cleopatra, 


278  The  Birdeen. 

Cleopatra;  or  Deirdre,  Deirdre?  And,  too, 
why  does  the  common  familiar  bow  that  is  set 
in  the  heavens  thrill  us  in  each  new  apparition 
as  though  it  were  a  sudden  stairway  to  all  lost 
or  dreamed-of  Edens?  As  I  write  I  look  sea- 
ward, and  over  Innisdun,  the  dark  precipitous 
isle  that  lies  in  these  wide  waters  even  as  Lev- 
iathan itself,  a  rainbow  rises  with  vast  unbroken 
sweep,  a  skyey  flower  fed  from  the  innumerous 
hues  of  sunset  woven  this  way  and  that  on  the 
looms  of  the  sea.  And  I  know  that  I  have 
never  seen  a  rainbow  before,  and  of  all  that  I 
may  see  I  may  never  see  another  again  as  I 
have  seen  this.  Yet  it  is  a  rainbow  as  others 
are,  and  have  been  and  will  be  for  all  time  past 
and  to  come. 

Eilidh,  that  was  "the  Birdeen"  when  she 
laughed  at  the  breast,  and  was  "  the  Birdeen  " 
when  her  own  Aluinn  first  turned  his  father's 
eyes  upon  her,  and  is  "  the  Birdeen  "  now  when 
the  white  flower  of  age  is  belied  by  the  young 
eyes  and  the  young,  young  heart,  —  Eilidh  that 
I  love,  Eilidh  that  has  the  lilt  of  life  in  her 
brain  as  no  woman  I  have  known  or  heard  of 
has  ever  had  in  like  measure,  Eilidh  is  my 
Rainbow. 


Silk  o'  the   Kine.1 


"  What  I  shall  now  be  telling  you,"  said  Ian 
M6r  to  me  once,  —  and  indeed,  I  should  remem- 
ber the  time  of  it  well,  for  it  was  in  the  last 
year  of  his  life,  when  rarely  any  other  than  my- 
self saw  aught  of  Ian  of  the  Hills.  — "  What  I 
shall  now  be  telling  you  is  an  ancient  forgotten 
tale  of  a  man  and  woman  of  the  old  heroic  days. 
The  name  of  the  man  was  Isla,  and  the  name 
of  the  woman  was  Eilidh." 

i  Silk  d1  the  Kine,  one  of  the  poetic  "  secret "  names  of 
conquered  Erin,  was  in  ancient  days,  there  and  in  the 
Scottish  Isles,  a  designation  for  a  woman  of  rare  beauty. 
The  name  Eilidh  (pronounced  EilMh,  or  Isle-ee  with  a 
long  accent  on  the  first  syllable)  is  also  ancient,  but  lingers 
in  the  Isles  still,  and  indeed  throughout  the  Western  High- 
lands, as  also,  I  understand,  in  Connaught  and  Conne- 
maja.  Somhairle  (Somerled)  is  pronounced  So-irl-u. 


280  Silk  o'  the  Kine. 

"  Ah  yes,  for  sure,"  Ian  added,  as  I  inter- 
rupted him ;  "  I  knew  you  would  be  saying  that; 
but  it  is  not  of  Eilidh  that  loved  Cormac  that  I 
am  now  speaking.  Nor  am  I  taking  the  hidden 
way  with  Isla,  that  was  my  friend,  nor  with 
Eilidh  that  is  my  name-child,  whom  you  know. 
Let  the  Birdeen  be,  bless  her  bonnie  heart ! 
No,  what  I  am  for  telling  you  is  all  as  new  to 
you  as  the  green  grass  to  a  lambkin ;  and  no 
one  has  heard  it  from  these  tired  lips  o1  mine 
since  I  was  a  boy,  and  learned  it  off  the  mouth 
of  old  Barabol  MacAodh,  that  was  my  foster- 
mother." 

Of  all  the  many  tales  of  the  olden  time  that 
Ian  M6r  told  me,  and  are  to  be  found  in  no 
book,  this  was  the  last.  That  is  why  I  give  it 
here,  where  I  have  spoken  much  of  him. 

Ian  told  me  this  thing  one  winter  night,  while 
we  sat  before  the  peats,  where  the  ingle  was  full 
of  warm  shadows.  We  were  in  the  croft  of  the 
small  hill-farm  of  Glenivore,  which  was  held  by 
my  cousin,  Silis  Macfarlane.  But  we  were  alone 
then,  for  Silis  was  over  at  the  far  end  of  the 
Strath,  because  of  the  baffling  against  death  of 
her  dearest  friend,  Giorsal  MacDiarmid. 


Silk  o'  the  Kine.  281 

It  was  warm  there,  before  the  peats,  with  a 
thick  wedge  of  spruce  driven  into  the  heart  of 
them.  The  resin  crackled  and  sent  blue  sparks 
of  flame  up  through  the  red  and  yellow  tongues 
that  licked  the  sooty  chimney-slopes,  in  which, 
as  in  a  shell,  we  could  hear  an  endless  soughing 
of  the  wind. 

Outside,  the  snow  lay  deep.  It  was  so  hard 
on  the  surface  that  the  white  hares,  leaping 
across  it,  went  soundless  as  shadows,  and  as 
trackless. 

In  the  far-off  days,  when  Somhairle  was 
Maormor  of  the  Isles,  the  most  beautiful  woman 
of  her  time  was  named  Eilidh. 

The  king  had  sworn  that  whosoever  was  his 
best  man  in  battle,  when  next  the  Fomorian 
pirates  out  of  the  north  came  down  upon  the 
isles,  should  have  Eilidh  to  wife. 

Eilidh,  who,  because  of  her  soft,  white  beauty, 
for  all  the  burning  brown  of  her  by  the  sun  and 
wind,  was  also  called  Silk  o'  the  Kine,  laughed 
low  when  she  heard  this.  For  she  loved  the  one 
man  in  all  the  world  for  her,  and  that  was  Isla, 
the  son  of  Isla  M6r,  the  blind  chief  of  Islay. 
He,  too,  loved  her  even  as  she  loved  him.  He 


282  Silk  o'  the  Kine. 

was  a  poet  as  well  as  a  warrior,  and  scarce  she 
knew  whether  she  loved  best  the  fire  in  his  eyes 
when,  girt  with  his  gleaming  weapons  and 
with  his  fair  hair  unbound,  he  went  forth  to 
battle :  or  the  shine  in  his  eyes  when,  harp  in 
hand,  he  chanted  of  the  great  deeds  of  old,  or 
made  a  sweet  song  to  her,  Eilidh,  his  queen  of 
women ;  or  the  flame  in  his  eyes  when,  meeting 
her  at  the  setting  of  the  sun,  he  stood  speechless, 
wrought  to  silence  because  of  his  worshipping 
love  of  her. 

One  day  she  bade  him  go  to  the  Isle  of  the 
Swans  to  fetch  her  enough  of  the  breast-down 
of  the  wild  cygnets  for  her  to  make  a  white  cloak 
of.  While  he  was  still  absent — and  the  going 
there,  and  the  faring  thereupon,  and  the  return- 
ing took  three  days  —  the  Fomorians  came  down 
upon  the  Long  Island. 

It  was  a  hard  fight  that  was  fought,  but  at 
last  the  Norlanders  were  driven  back  with 
slaughter.  Somhairle,  the  Maormor.  was  all 
but  slain  in  that  fight,  and  the  corbies  would 
have  had  his  eyes  had  it  not  been  for  Osra 
Mac  Osra,  who  with  his  javelin  slew  the  spear- 
man who  had  waylaid  the  king  while  he  slipped 
in  the  Fomorian  blood  he  had  spilt. 


Silk  o'  the  Kine.  283 

While  the  ale  was  being  drunk  out  of  the 
great  horns  that  night,  Somhairle  called  for 
Eilidh. 

The  girl  came  to  the  rath  where  the  king  and 
his  warriors  feasted,  white  and  beautiful  as 
moonlight  among  turbulent,  black  waves. 

A  murmur  went  up  from  many  bearded  lips. 
The  king  scowled.  Then  there  was  silence. 

"  I  am  here,  O  King,"  said  Eilidh.  The 
sweet  voice  of  her  was  like  soft  rain  in  the 
woods  at  the  time  of  the  greening. 

Somhairle  looked  at  her.  Sure,  she  was  fair 
to  see.  No  wonder  men  called  her  Silk  o'  the 
Kine.  His  pulse  beat  against  the  stormy  tide 
in  his  veins.  Then,  suddenly,  his  gaze  fell  upon 
Osra.  The  heart  of  his  kinsman  that  had  saved 
him  was  his  own  ;  and  he  smiled,  and  lusted 
after  Eilidh  no  more. 

"  Eilidh,  that  art  called  Silk  o'  the  Kine,  dost 
thou  see  this  man  here  before  me  ?  " 

"  I  see  the  man." 

"  Let  the  name  of  him,  then,  be  upon  your 
lips." 

"  It  is  Osra  Mac  Osra." 

"  It  is  this  Osra  and  no  other  man  that  is  to 
wind  thee,  fair  Silk  o'  the  Kine.  And  by  the 


284  Silk  o'  the  Kine. 

same  token,  I  have  sworn  to  him  that  he  shall 
lie  breast  to  breast  with  thee  this  night.  So 
go  hence  to  where  Osra  has  his  sleeping-place, 
and  await  him  there  upon  the  deer-skins.  From 
this  hour  thou  art  his  wife.  It  is  said." 

Then  a  silence  fell  again  upon  all  there,  when, 
after  a  loud  surf  of  babbling  laughter  and  talk, 
they  saw  that  Eilidh  stood  where  she  was,  heed- 
less of  the  king's  word. 

Somhairle  gloomed.  The  great  black  eyes 
under  his  cloudy  mass  of  hair  flamed  upon  her. 

"  Is  it  dumb  you  are,  Eilidh,"  he  said  at  last, 
in  a  cold,  hard  voice.  "  Or  do  you  wait  for  Osra 
to  take  you  hence  ?  " 

"  I  am  listening,"  she  answered,  and  that 
whisper  was  heard  by  all  there.  It  was  as  the 
wind  in  the  heather,  low  and  sweet. 

Then  all  listened. 

The  playing  of  a  harp  was  heard.  None 
played  like  that,  save  Isla  Mac  Isla  M6r. 

Then  the  deer-skins  were  drawn  aside,  and 
Isla  came  among  those  who  feasted  there. 

"  Welcome,  O  thou  who  wast  afar  off  when 
the  foe  came,"  began  Somhairle,  with  bitter 
mocking. 

But   Isla  took  no  note  of  that.      He  went 


Silk  o'  the  Kine.  285 

forward  till  he  was  nigh  upon  the  Maormor. 
Then  he  waited. 

"Well,  Isla  that  is  called  Isla-Aluinn,  Isla 
fair-to-see,  what  is  the  thing  you  want  of  me, 
that  you  stand  there,  close-kin  to  death  I  am 
warning  you  ?  " 

"I  want  Eilidh  that  is  called  Silk  o'  the 
Kine." 

"  Eilidh  is  the  wife  of  another  man." 

"  There  is  no  other  man,  O  King." 

"  A  brave  word  that !  And  who  says  it,  O 
Isla  my  over-lord  ?  " 

"  I  say  it." 

Somhairle,  the  great  Maormor,  laughed,  and 
his  laugh  was  like  a  black  bird  of  omen  let 
loose  against  a  night  of  storm. 

"And  what  of  Eilidh?" 

"  Let  her  speak." 

With  that  the  Maormor  turned  to  the  girl, 
who  did  not  quail. 

"  Speak,  Silk  o'  the  Kine !  " 

"  There  is  no  other  man,  O  King." 

"  Fool,  I  have  this  moment  wedded  you  and 
Osra  Mac  Osra." 

"I  am  wife  to  Isla-Aluinn." 

"  Thou  canst  not  be  wife  to  two  men  !  " 


286  Silk  o'  the  Kine. 

"  That  may  be,  O  King.  I  know  not.  But 
I  am  wife  to  Isla-Aluinn." 

The  king  scowled  darkly.  None  at  the 
board  whispered  even.  Osra  shifted  uneasily, 
clasping  his  sword-hilt.  Isla  stood,  his  eyes 
ashine  as  they  rested  on  Eilidh.  He  knew  noth- 
ing in  life  or  death  could  come  between  them. 

"Art  thou  not  still  a  maid,  Eilidh?"  Sorr- 
hairle  asked  at  last. 

"No." 

"  Shame  to  thee,  wanton." 

The  girl  smiled.  But  in  her  eyes,  darkened 
now,  there  shone  a  flame. 

"Is  Isla-Aluinn  the  man?" 

"  He  is  the  man." 

With  that  the  king  laughed  a  bitter  laugh. 

"  Seize  him  !  "  he  cried. 

But  Isla  made  no  movement.  So  those  who 
were  about  to  bind  him  stood  by,  ready  with 
naked  swords. 

"  Take  up  your  harp,"  said  Somhairle. 

Isla  stooped,  and  lifted  the  harp. 

"  Play  now  the  wedding  song  of  Osra  Mac 
Osra  and  Eilidh  Silk  o'  the  Kine." 

Isla  smiled,  but  it  was  a  grim  smile  that,  and 
only  Eilidh  understood.  Then  he  struck  the 


Silk  o'  the  Kine.  287 

harp,  and  he  sang  thus  far  this  song  out  of  his 
heart  to  the  woman  he  loved  better  than  life. 

Eilidh,  Eilidh,  heart  of  my  life,  my  pulse,  my  flame, 
There  are  two  men  loving  thee,  and  two  who  are  calling 
thee  wife ! 

But  only  one  husband  to  thee,  Eilidh,  that  art  my  wife  and 

my  joy; 
Ay,  sure  thy  womb  knows  me  and  the  child  thou  bearest  is 


Thou  to  me,  I  to  thee,  there  is  nought  else  in  the  world, 

Eilidh,  Silk  o'  the  Kine,  — 
Nought  else  in  the  world,  no,  no  other  man  for  thee,  no 

woman  for  me ! 

But  with  that  Somhairle  rose,  and  dashed  the 
hilt  of  his  great  spear  upon  the  ground. 

"  Let  the  twain  go,"  he  shouted. 

Then  all  stood  or  leaned  back,  as  Isla  and 
Eilidh  slowly  moved  through  their  midst,  hand 
in  hand.  Not  one  there  but  knew  they  went  to 
their  death. 

"  This  night  shall  be  theirs,"  cried  the  king 
with  mocking  wrath.  "Then,  Osra,  you  can 
have  your  will  of  Silk  o'  the  Kine  that  is  your 
wife,  and  have  Isla-Aluinn  to  be  your  slave, — 
and  this  for  the  rising  and  setting  of  three 


288  Silk  o'  the  Kine. 

moons  from  to-night.  Then  they  shall  each  be 
blinded  and  made  dumb,  and  that  for  the  same 
space  of  time.  And  at  the  end  of  that  time 
they  shall  be  thrown  upon  the  snow  to  the 
wolves." 

Nevertheless  Osra  groaned  in  his  heart  be- 
cause of  that  night  of  Isla  with  Eilidh.  Not 
all  the  years  of  the  years  could  give  him  a  joy 
like  unto  that. 

In  the  silence  of  the  mid-dark  he  went  stealth- 
ily to  where  the  twain  lay. 

It  was  there  he  was  found  in  the  morning, 
where  he  had  died  soundlessly,  with  Eilidh's 
dagger  up  to  the  hilt  in  his  heart. 

But  none  saw  them  go,  save  one;  and  that 
was  Sorch  the  brother  of  Isla,  Sorch  who  in 
later  days  was  called  Sorch  Mouth  o'  Honey 
because  of  his  sweet  songs.  Of  all  songs  that 
he  sang  none  was  so  sweet  against  the  ears  as 
that  of  the  love  of  Eilidh  and  Isla.  Two  lovers 
these  that  loved  as  few  love ;  and  deathless, 
too,  because  of  that  great  love. 

And  what  Sorch  saw  was  this.  Just  before 
the  rising  of  the  sun,  Isla  and  Eilidh  came 
hand  in  hand  from  out  of  the  rath,  where  they 
had  lain  awake  all  night  because  of  their  deep 
joy. 


Silk  o'  the  Kine.  289 

Silently,  but  unhasting,  fearless  still  as  of  yore, 
they  moved  across  the  low  dunes  that  withheld 
the  sea  from  the  land. 

The  waves  were  just  frothed,  so  low  were, 
they.  The  loud  glad  singing  of  them  filled  the 
morning.  Eilidh  and  Isla  stopped  when  the 
first  waves  met  their  feet.  They  cast  their 
raiment  from  them.  Eilidh  flung  the  gold  fillet 
of  her  dusky  hair  far  into  the  sea.  Isla  broke 
his  sword,  and  saw  the  two  halves  shelve  through 
the  moving  greenness.  Then  they  turned,  and 
kissed  each  other  upon  the  lips. 

And  the  end  of  the  song  of  Sorch  is  this : 
that  neither  he  nor  any  man  knows  whether 
they  went  to  life  or  to  death;  but  that  Isla 
and  Eilidh  swam  out  together  against  the  sun, 
and  were  seen  never  again  by  any  of  their  kin 
or  race.  Two  strong  swimmers  were  these,  who 
swam  out  together  into  the  sunlight :  Eilidh  and 
Isla. 


THE   END. 


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